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If you’re going to break down, break down in bed. Not here, not in the bathroom, where you know you’ll never reach that eyes-gazing-into-themselves-in-mirror clarity of vision. No, don’t break down here, where you’ll end up with head in hands, thoughts swimming between deafly ringing ears. Not here. Break down in bed, where you’ll quiver without jarring bones or scraping skin. In bed, where you know you’ll slide sobbing to sleep, where oblivion will engulf raw and bleeding emotion or where dreams will embrace raucous feeling into their ever mutating, transforming and potentially emancipating arms. No mirror clarity tonight. Break down in bed, where you’ll truly disintegrate, where you won’t simply chip a tooth or break a nail, where you’ll nerves will fizzle out of your pores, where you’ll be shot into the air on a gasp of despair, into the air where you’ll look down in panic and supernova, becoming a outward-hurtling junkheap of pathologies that will descend back down to Earth, where their radioactive remains will blanket the contours of the surface, creating a glowing silhouette: that’s the most clarity that you will get tonight. So now raise your face from your hands. Don’t glance in the mirror as you pass. Calmly open the door and walk down the hall. Enter your citylight-reflecting-off-of-smog -lit bedroom. Lay down. Break down.