I am not beautiful. I am not brilliant. I am not any of the things one might think. I am unthinkable. Without language, nothing can be made to adhere to me this way. I am not without language. But perhaps I am brilliantly stupid. Or horrifyingly beautiful. These words are insidious. They are not like my whole self. They are like teeth. Or fingernails. They make divisions which demand or allow further processing. I don’t have any names.