To let some go, yes, fine. This is not true. This is bad for you. This is unreasonable. This will not make you happy. This will make you sick. Yes, but die, we will, regardless. And truth, we will not find, in this life, at least. So what then? Why do we sit here and argue? I have spent all this time in the courtroom before even committing the crime. And who knows how the court system will have changed by then? I must. I must do. I must be. Now. When there is still time. I must be something … but maybe not. Maybe that is where I am hung up and nailed down to the world. Crucified to caring for my ego. Adamant that it all must mean something. Unable to accept that this is the way it is and let go of my need to change that. It may be true, really, I believe you. But if I let go of this, then what am I? Maybe nothing—and that there is the crux of my sometimes subliminal railings against you and your feminine way of seeing the world.