I fumbled through a description of what I was feeling, with little to no decipherable plot and/or chronology of the events that had happened to me. I picked through the memories and seasons of on and off depression as a child picks through blades of grass absent-mindedly, abstaining from truly feeling and connecting. I was afraid. She knew it. I knew it. My body knew it, and spoke in silent volumes to convey that it did not want to be there. How powerful the human consciousness must be then to override the desire to bolt, finding purpose in the unknown - or perhaps, how invertedly weak to find danger in fifty minutes of in depth conversation.