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.
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