If the work didn’t kill you, it was bound to get you thinking. / After rehearsals and all-nighters and Wild Turkey meant to dull it, you still recompile, until the kernel kicks and everything goes black. / Fifteen minutes on a stage, ten more beside a wrinkled poster, while the applause is a lint roller that leaves the fabric fuzzy-white. / The Devil’s advocate in you knocks like death: one, two, three, four. / How do you waltz back to the pocket office without tripping on your gray shadow? / Ping goes the manager: Thrilled for your next assignment? / I resolve to perform as if the project were my passion, to hit the marks as though the marks were mine. / Anyone can fool another fool, I tell myself, and the self applauds. / The days lose their labels: Thursday, tomato-jerky ramen day, the trash again, the inbox? Always. / Smile, I echo, and I start the rehearsal over, swapping birds for words until the sentence holds still. / Down the hall, the dog barks; in the kitchen, the windows stay shut. / It’s terrible to lack a home or work, and terrible, too, to be locked inside. / If the work doesn’t kill you, it drafts you into mask-making. / So try again: crack the plastered grin; keep the face that’s yours, even under a mildewed flapjack.