It starts slowly in the tips of my fingers. The taut skin separates, as if no longer willing or able to contain my passionately indecisive insides, and creeps towards my knuckles, slides over my wrists, leaves furrows in my forearms. As hazy eyes watch this dermal collection begin to race towards my thorax, a distant part of my over-worked mind recalls something about the physics of mass as a variable and its effects on speed. When this epithelial entity finally reaches my chest, I see that the integument that once shielded my dependent extremities has assembled in a similar fashion. It now dawns on me that my outermost cells are not the only bits of my biology gathering in a single point here above my ribcage. Muscles, bones, fascia, organs—both those which science has deemed unnecessary and those which we know to be vital—are convening, converging in this way. I trust I am weeping as I come to the understanding that there are now only three possible conclusions. Cognition urges me to wonder, “Shall I go boom like the universe, expand limitlessly, touch everything? Shall I plummet into myself, implode like a black hole, and become nothing? Or rather, in that instance, would I be the absence of everything?” I realize that in this state it would be silly to ponder such devastatingly complex hypotheses, and thus digress. “The third option,” I recognize hopelessly, “would be to attempt desperately to rewind, to become once again that strange, naive girl with her fixed smile and crippling inability to build strong walls.” With heavy eyes hovering above a heart with a powerful gravity all its own, it hits me that I do not know which outcome I prefer, and I believe I begin weeping once more.