Born of a one sided orgasm, I am shifty. A schism and held underwater, in between two blankets. I am no production, no great fable. For my disease, there is no identifier, no bracelet: castaway. I am a series of walks back and forth, Here to there--- pacings. Made up of tiny heartbeats---pit-patterings. Yet, I am the staff that split Moses' ocean. I am the disgusting burden in his heart as he drowns his brother again and again. I am the stagnant water that enters lungs, coughed up by nobody. The nearly perfect evening, where the clouds obscure the flamboyant sunset. The bastard child of madness, the one who teeters, straddles a sharp fence. I, who am terrified of my greatness, trade prospect for prospects. I, who will etch in stone the certainty of my death, embrace the dark box of knowing. And every morning, I inhale my awakening inhalation, as though I did not throw myself into complete unknown-ness the night before. Every morning, I manage to feel better than the day before. And to find something to laugh about.