My crackly, inflexible joints argue with my body’s urge to spring from the bed after a dream-charged night. My stiff awareness of joint erosion gives rise to another immobile awareness I’ve been nurturing in the last years. Mortality sensitivity—I don’t know how else to explain it. Maybe too much Deleuze or Nietzsche creaks like oak planks over my soul, but I’m certain of the uncertain, and this is unsettling. I’m not afraid of death or its aftermath. The getting there worries me. Twenty years lurk around the corner until they’re gone with no proof of purchase. As a peon, I’ve inexorably set my expectations so high I will never reach them. I knew I should’ve been an ant—at least they assume purpose. Tomorrow morning I will look alive when my feet hit the ground and my hips squeal in protest. I will be sensitive, empathetic to a world that doesn’t care if you’re already dead.