Forgive me if I act the fool. It’s just a way of coping. My stomach lurches, there never are enough words to be precise. Let’s try this one more time. If aging is just learning to feel less then I don’t want this. There’s really no accurate way to put a whole species’ worth of confusion into one sentence. You reach out so blindly but I don’t know how to speak, one person can’t be another’s answer. I say “42” but I mean “I don’t know”. How can it be harder to be soft than to be hard? I just don’t know. Surely it’s not easy for any involved. You hone yourself to an edge rewrite reality and wish crab grass on the other side of the fence. The hard little bit inside me rattles around knocks imperiously against the soft shell— I’m an inside-out snail. We both fail trailing our litany of relationships, of conversations never had, lies we didn’t realize we were telling, somnambulistic, we’d call it inevitable if we heard ourselves speaking but our lips don’t move so we can pretend at silence, just another teaspoon of perjured sighs for a bucket of statistics.