The world is a hard place. Can you hear me? The world is a hard place and I am ill-made to exist in it. They built me on an unsteady plane, and I have used mostly poorly chosen bricks to build the rest. Out of something like necessity the bricks are mostly hewn of fear, and fear is as brittle a material as can be. And when it is not brittle it is moldable as clay. When I do not break I bend. I fold in fear or crack as though every bump were a crisis. I am poorly built. I could be of worse construction. Could be wantonly cruel. Could be maliciously destructive. Could be a million things. But I am myself weak where I would be strong and though perhaps better than many alternatives, I am poorly built and the world is hard.