The only way I can describe this feeling--this presence, is by likening it to a set of automatic doors. In my case, I don't register on their sensors; because I am nothing. They close with an inevitability that smells of justice: slamming my fingers, bruising my knuckles, snapping my elbows so that I collapse into a tangle of bones and shredded skin. Your grandma's knitting needles and coloured yarn gone wrong. Down there, and I emphasize "there" because it is not only the 3 ft distance from my hips to the floor, it is the distance between extinction and evolution--every cycle I fight against myself for my own life, and when I find myself at a standstill--as always--I grow into a person whose smiles are more convoluted than ever before; yet I will call this evolution. Down there, it is blacker than the space beneath a child's bed where fabricated monsters lurk. Down there, it is so black that the colour ceases to provide adequate imagery for those who are not blind. The colour becomes more of a dimension, encompassing everything and covering the whiteness of my bones with a layer of tar, mercury and charcoal compote. There is no shooting star that can pass through this hellish dimension where gravity meets insanity and punches two black holes through my vocal cords. This room is closed to outsiders. When I am lucky, it is closed to myself, too. But every day of every week of every year is spent as a gamble; where I try to convince the cruel automatic doors that I exist--that I am human and not a figment of my own imagination. 50/50. Heads. Tails. Flip the coin. My sentence is stamped on one face.