This has to be it; the plateau of consistent instability. This has to be the point where, even if I look down and all the teensy but supposedly great marvels look up, the strings of formality wither off in the depths of the distance. This has to be reality, on my table and this has to be me ready for its autopsy. And with every incision, I’ll free me of and deprive them of the business of trying to impress or be impressed. And because this has to be it, I can’t be all sorts of things for all sorts of people anymore. Because I am more important than the versions of me in their heads.