When I said I’ll accept myself, I expected to receive the glorious pity nestled in history, not this crumpled up tragedy, returned to sender. Blasted with what didn’t detonate back then. All the confusion I procrastinated. Shrapnels like confetti. Mortally wounded. Morally clueless. This isn’t what I signed up for. But then again, I didn’t sign anything. I look for signs in everything. MacGyvering my way out of this. Bleeding out into a different dimension.