Sporadic. This girl tells me she's going to live til she's a hundred and thirty-three. "I'm going to see history unfold before my very eyes until it's flat and spread enough, it can't hold any more secrets." Sporadic. This girl tells me she'll find out history's secrets, like they were more comparable to her misplaced magic markers than to the equality we so craved. And the funny thing is that she actually, truly, honestly believes that she can— The other funny thing is that I think I'm starting to believe her and now, I've decided I'm telling her— and she's walking towards me, bright eyes and smiling lips replaced by bitter lines and hues. She's walking towards me—Sporadic. This girl tells me that she's sorry because she just got a call from her doctor— Sporadic. This girl tells me that she won't live past twenty-three.