I am D. Rolland Jr.—a myth, a pseudonym, or just a placeholder occupying the space where you expect an author to be. My identity is irrelevant to the work. Judge it the way you'd judge a phrase scrawled on a bathroom wall: stripped of biography, taken for what it says, not who said it. I try to cut slits in the umbrella you hold over your head—the one made of opinions, assumptions, and whatever stories you tell yourself to stay dry—so a little of the universe can leak through. Sometimes chaos. Sometimes clarity. Call it the void. The void is a pillow. You can scream into it and it still counts. Especially when no one's listening. Especially then. Make promises just because you can, not because you're supposed to. Ride the bus. Quit your job. Go to the bar alone. Say no to your parents. Each one is another slit in the umbrella you're holding. Leave it untouched and it becomes a ceiling.