I know, ok? I know. I know everyone sees everything. I know that my friends and the strangers and the people in charge can’t look away. I know I can choose what I show them. I know, too, that they love mystery, love when things get messy, love when things go off the rails. I know they crave my disorder because it makes them feel better about their own. I know what they want. I know I change how I act because of it. I know they hate showing as much as they hate not being able to see. I know that feeling, that yearning, the pulling, unspooling, long-drawn-out-craving for just one more–one more factoid, one more story, one more joke, one more. I know the burst when it hits just right. I know the satisfaction of a perfectly neat room, a landscape in rich Amazonian green, a round number, a follow-back, a direct reply. I know what it’s like to be known neuro-deep. I know that our brains are mushier, now, tingling. I know the new possibilities that await me, the effervescence of being alone, together, on the thread, shouting same, girl, same. I know it’s all artifice, this whole world, my favorite house. I know with even more certainty that it’s real, realer than real, because it’s in my pocket and in my ears and in how I talk–at my side, every day. I know it has me in its grips, just like it does them. I know all this and yet I will be no other way.