You know, it’s not just the kid sending money home, the one whose roommates think he’s just too broke for a beer, but it’s that deep, primal human impulse to conceal… to protect the image of yourself, and to keep the truth of your burdens tucked away, even from those you share space with, and we do it constantly, don't we? And it’s not just for others, but for ourselves too, I suppose, because admitting the full weight of it, the constant sacrifice, the quiet desperation behind the dish soap and the steam, well, that would make it REAL, and sometimes it’s easier to just let them think you’re… particular, or just a little bit off, and that’s a whole life, isn’t it? Just a series of quiet fictions, and I wonder what mine were, or still are.