Every now and then I take a deep breath and I think to myself, it’s okay, because you are only a skeleton, and you have a box that you inhabit with other skeletons who care about you (or whose craniums and aortas co-exist with yours in a way that projects some form of comfort), and you even get to drive a box with wheels alongside other skeletons, and you have a tiny baby rat skeleton in a box inside that box-you-inhabit, and your shelves are filled with ink on paper (see also: craniums and aortas which co-exist with yours in a way that projects some form of comfort) and this is it, this is how you are, this is the hair upon your head, your ‘capelli’ in the mother tongue of those you desire to walk amongst, the same meaning but a different way of moving your mandible, lips, teeth, those are your eyes, this is your soul, a safe blanket to return to when the night is dark and the air is thick. You are safe.