All my life I had been asleep until my first attempt at death. When I popped tablets hoping to hop on the first train home, no matter the crowding hustle, the stifling bustle and the cacophony of human songs, all unheard. All I wanted was to get out of there, get out of this body and be somewhere, neither here nor there but away. I could not afford a rocket, but tablets, death by overdose is better than jumping off the moon, better than being consumed by a soundless abyss of no oxygen and only untethered aimless satellites for a company. Now that's a sad death. But I digress. I speak of my regression into a quick impression of death, to escape a repression that's life and offer a blow. The suppression could see my mind. But I digress. For a plan to offer a happier after of how I became a goalcast video, or 10 million views, dead talk, or an opera or a time-simple venture, but well, yeah. Elsa wouldn't be here, a sad writer, awake at 153 AM. Still, I am a survivor. Still, I am here. Still, I speak and share and rant and digress. Still, I lost and cried and pained and held my body in the lonely space of human life and held my body as seasons pass by and held my body for none did. People are busy and you are not a liability. You are their friend and daughter and sister and every other human relationship except to be a real-time witness to collapse and drain. But I digress. I left a lot of things behind and people and places and memories and moments and emotions and feelings and thoughts and prayers and grudges and my mess behind. A lot of lot behind why? For I am my own gods. My own goosebumps inducing goalcast. My own fairy god mother. My own god damned heroine and I don't digress. Baby girl, go give yourself unexplainable love. Elsa remained comatose in the human dream.