I am fine, honestly. I’m a little more awkward than I once was, okay, but I am also fucking older than you are, most of you. My body cries out in the night like a long-ignored rotten tooth. In the morning I stretch twice, first with both hands cautiously downward, with my fingers yearning for the floor like some anciently promised land, then reaching upward as if for some imaginary object hovering behind and above my head. It is a project of creaks and gusts of pained breath — I am not graceful. Technically I was better when I was younger and jumped off of stairs and onto handrails. But I was always a coward, always. I was a six-stair man at most, maximum six, with marginal tech capabilities but only when I was going slowly. This is the wholly unexceptional story of a young man who skateboards for twenty-four years and along the way starts to think about it too much, and it begins to frighten him.