I think I’d like to have the freedom that comes from drowning these complacent hands, and this informed pressure, and refusing to make another extravagant plunge. I’m dripping and staggering underway, but my calls for help now echo. Fingers withered and spent from the show of reaching. Eager to show my favorite side: bitter and unclear when I lose your attention. Now gripping and slipping is the reality of such an expedited existence —of pretending to be what I never labored to become.