A lot of things didn’t make sense to me back when I knew everything. Why would anyone say “what the hell?” to dismiss something curious? Why would anyone ask “Why me?” I have been the decades-long subject of heartless experimentation designed to ensure my adherence to someone else’s values and the more paranoid I get, the more I feel like I’m waking up, all the more I am convinced that information is poison. I want to experience unity, not collect bits and bytes. It’s so lonely here that I am given privacy just so I can be intruded upon. These pointless games may be amusing if I felt safe, if the stakes weren’t my ownly happiness or bemusement, but for me they are terrible. And I could incinerate the whole lot—to suffuse my power with this anger and so realize my destructive potential—but I choose peace and instead reduce to a smoldering pilage of pokable coals. This is not why I embraced vulnerability. It’s not the lesson in trust I sought. I’ve been let down gently, ever gently, by a world of short-sighted misery. I cast off my life for curiosity of the dead, and now in the underworld a call for light rises in my chest. Am I doomed to vacillate greener grasses meaner sobriquets adhering to a pliant model polishing veneer so to reflect less like a circus glass and find at once and last what’s come, the place where is and has collide? Or am I trapped here, forced by whimsy to endure corporealish washy time-struck atoms. How I’ve changed. How the meaning of idealism shifts with me. What the hell. Why me?