You know that anything you rest your entire being upon will one day desert you. You know that desirability is temporary, narcotic. You vest your worth in strangers and if enough of them kiss you you will never die. So you say. You have yet to find the bone or blood within you from which other people seem to derive their own home-grown self-worth. You thought it might develop at puberty; or sixteen, once you had your license; or eighteen, when you could vote for losing candidates; or 21, when the State said you were man enough to drink yourself to death; or 25, when the male cortex finishes developing; or one day, any day, in bed in the morning with sun seeping in through the shades upon someone self-contained and enough. You’re still waiting. You know that one should put childish things behind them, once childhood withers and falls away; and you have, enough to lie about it convincingly. But still you believe that to be watched is to be seen is to be loved. Still you cannot bear to be anything but cherished, no matter how quick or hollow the glance from which you source the feeling that day. You mimic through parody that which you cannot embody. You know that you are dying, and without any doubt in this world you will wake up a few years closer to the day to find sun seeping in through the shades upon the empty space where this crutch has been ever since you lost weight and saw a girl watching you in science class. What then? You sweet shallow thing?