I'm unfazed at the sight of hyenas tearing their insides out. I'm numb as the executor’s sword pierces my giving flesh, decorating the ground crimson. I'm motionless as the hot iron brands me unlucky. The mark settles into me, a new piece of decor I never asked for. The 1950s film unfolds. I yawn. Show me something savoury. I'm surrounded by ostriches who brandish themselves peacocks: long necks, big feet, eager in the pampering marathon, a stampede before a dust storm. Last one to the cliff—a squire for life, serving brutish royals. Do they know how easy feathers are plucked? How simple it is to tumble from bronze euphoria to stone-age psychosis? My thoughts wander, pensive— what to eat for breakfast? Self-care first. The world hums a la-di-duh tune. I tune out. I stopped giving oxygen to anything that wanted me burning. There is no catalyst left for my reaction— no ploy sharp enough to decimate me. I'm there, but not there. I watch you. You mistake my silence for ignorance. But idiosyncrasy takes my hand, and together, we walk away.