I’m beginning to understand myself: I exist in the space my cells leave behind every seven years when they make room for a new set of pixels to move in. Myself: a fleeting entity, made of fugitive parts. In the first cycles, the transitions refreshed me. Now, not so much; now, I make the most of my territory while those mites rush past me, their time up, and the next crew of aliens debates moving in. I’m tough, that’s what I know. No matter what molecular stuff’s shuffling through the door, it’ll leave me alone soon enough, so I kick my slippers to the floor, turn off the light and ignore what’s coming. I relax—I’m introducing my mind to my mind again. In an incognito world, it’s not myself I won’t know.