I wait for the call that will confirm I've done everything right. the proximity between "my anxiety" and my anxiety begs questions. the questions that answer questions, and not in the space of years, but in unbelievable before-and-after tableaus, the likes of which splatter over my screen when I get curious about fitness. “there are years that ask questions and years that answer them.” no. instead, the wisdom runs at me in the space of moments. the fantasy scrutinized by the reality. flexing, half-heartedly in the mirror, observing in imperfect imaging the whole thing I have going on: “knows better or will shortly.”