I am why I’m not okay. So goes my singsong internal  narrative. My fractured voice, me, the real me, struggles: But I am alive. I love. I, more than anything, love a summer night, a downhill, a breeze from the west, a bicycle, about 9:45; Sunday morning slow folk hymns and black tea stewed, steam in the chewable silence while the syrup of my mind dribbles, concentrated, down, smoothing itself out; rain and poetry, how they sober me. It’s all fear of what’s beautiful in myself. I can’t think of things to say to people, ideas go just beyond my reach. But loyalty kings all the things I can be. I am not okay; but I am not why, I am not responsible for the separation of myself. – Seth Williams