Today I am angry. I reserve this day for my rage. I reserve this space for my sadness, my disappointment, my inability to accept, my “affect”, my scholarly indignation, my human emotions. I have never written in this book for this purpose. I do not intend to make a habit of it. But today, today is different. Today I feel. Today I have nothing but “feelings”. My logic is filtered through the rage that I feel. It’s in me. It is me. Today I am hurt. I am pain. I can be nothing else. I wished to “work” today. Instead, I will “disfunction” as a construct of unsustainable inequality and continual death. Today I will die with the dead. Today I will lie with the interred. Today I will rest in the knowledge that nothing will ever be wholly restful. It’s still spinning. I’m still dying. I won’t ever stop. That’s not true… I will stop dying some day. Once I am dead, there will be no more dying for me. That’s amazing. I’ve never longed for that rest more whole-heartedly.