Like anyone, of course I find it hard not to feel alone or unafraid. And so I understand the child who bites hard on her lip: when it bleeds it's the only thing the teacher sees, not the larger laceration across her knee—she tries to keep that covered with her skirt. I understand the man who walks back home with ashen face after being fired from his job without cause; and the woman who sings the same two faltering bars of the only song she remembers while drawing her rail-thin legs up to her chest. Sometimes, all the bits of suffering I've ever seen hang out on the ceiling, next to fears that the future's already starting to dissolve my shape. While I lie in bed, I try to quiet the chatter in that sky; remind myself the feeling of falling's prelude to sleep and nothing else.