I am not fodder for or part of a collection of another award-winning story. I am not above being genderless, or so I am told, and must then be too vacant for you. I am not well-curated collections of photographs for public display and dissent for you to earn a reputation for your eye. My face belies my talentlessness. So then, for whom is the bell distant enough to be flat intonations of a grand romance that never had a chance in the day to day? I am prudent enough that I can refer to all my yesterdays as my younger years. And everything I cannot say out loud, my penchant for ruining the punchline, my inability to twist and turn and otherwise weave a decent tale, both my fear of and desire for performativity, I will write it all down.