These people who know everything talk of nothing as you look on with glazed eyes. You ask yourself how you got here as you listen with buzzing ears. They slur sloppy sentences, smirking, as you swallow the lump in your throat.They don’t see you. They don’t hear you. Now bent on salted knees, you are begging to leave. Incy Wincy spider climbed up the water spout. Instead they laugh, hah-hah-hah, and shrink far away. Smaller and smaller. And suddenly you are big. So big. Suddenly you are just so damn big. You tower above the party sounds, above and beyond. You think of your father forcing you onto the ferris wheel when you were twelve. This is what it feels like: being so uncontrollably high; heavy not with fear, but tired indifference. You look down to your hands, but you cannot see them. They are so far away. You know this is what it feels like to grow up, and to grow apart. Repetition, repetition, repetition. Down came the rain and washed poor Incy out. You look on with glazed eyes and listen with buzzing ears, you ask yourself how you got here but it’s all gone now. All you remember is the ferris wheel and feeling like Gulliver, enormously misunderstood by the 6-inch Lilliputians. Out came the sunshine and dried up all the rain. Incy Wincy spider climbed up the spout again. You are slumped in the corner remembering the cool warmth of your father’s hand as you sat above; a safety rope connecting you to something, someone. Climbed up the spout again, climbed up the spout again, climbed up the spout again. All you feel now is the hand’s absence. How did I get here?