Last night, I plotted my death in the moments before I rest. I found comfort in the noose suspended from my ceiling fan like a home I never knew. I thought of who I would confide my deepest secrets in, who I would tell my story to. I thought of what they would say in reply. I thought of their simplest question, why ?, and how I couldn't answer because I really had no reason. And I felt sick, and stupid, and ignorant, and I just really wanted to feel deep.