I was the size of an eyeball, Doctor. Rolling around my mother’s ovaries, rolling into the uterine walls then bouncing out, full of hair. I was a beautiful baby. Half the size that I am today, but hairier. Bearded to the belly. Lotus-positioned. I meditated everything—but what did I pray for? I learned to speak, to squat on the john, to write on top of the hole in my hand. But I prayed for a pupil, an optical nerve—I wanted to see my hair split when I screamed.