Sitting in the kitchen. 2:14 AM. The neighbors have their motion-sensor lights on again, illuminating the manicured hedges in cold, artificial bursts. It’s 32 years of biological development culminating in this: staring at a cast of *Tiktaalik roseae* on the laptop screen while the dishwasher hums its final cycle. The dissonance is a physical sensation. A localized pressure behind the sternum. Tachycardia. My mother sent a text earlier—something about "God’s timing" for the postdoc applications and the importance of prayer. I didn't reply. Just watched the notification blink until the screen went black. Fucking pathetic. The morphology doesn't lie. It’s right there in the transitional features. The limbs. The gills.