Mask it: the frustration of a teenager’s legs with a child’s memory of body mechanics.

Pretend: brick of secretion is the result of an upper respiratory infection instead of gnashing of soft, chemically treated human teeth, a bike chain attempting to catch on, latch on to first gear.

Beaten, not bored, D. Joseph sits, types, contemplates, commiserates with his sorry self. So easily influenced, his personal 3 year plan gets thrown out after the compliments of loved ones urge him “You could do SO much more. You are capable of SO much more.”

D. Joseph spits his nails, usually at himself. He has never been aware of what he has wanted. He enjoys the chase, the rush of motion. D. Joseph wants to be flush with victory, stand in the cool fall of defeat, hear the crunch of negativity brittleness under boots of his own making: he tanned the leather, he slaughtered the buck, he has never washed his hands.