My name is not Joseph. I am not world-renowned, painter of eclipsing lies and half-truths. I am not one silver-haired goddess of the moon, nor a sister to her. My moments in consciousness are not evocative of flowers, not of mushrooms, not of breathing trees. My voice does not recite incantations. My mood is not cantakerous. My knowledge does not exceed, does not supercede the vastness of a chasm below my feet. I do not belong to a strict code of ethics. I am not enveloped in a warmth attributed to kindness, and I do not have a soul-searcher beside me, prodding and prickling my conscience. I am not invisible, not audibly noticed, not ignored. I do not linger over dead bodies. I am not jarred awake at night facing a ravine that echoes an owl. I have not lived a day only living, not yet dead. I do not taste men's sweat, hear their ticking clockwork. I am not defined by negatives.