No Where To Go But Down

Slid into an excerpt (a word way too hard to pronounce) from I Wrote This Book Because I Love You by Tim Kreider.

And this little ole tidbit at the end is quite delicious:

A friend of mine once had a dream about a strange and terrible device: a staircase you could descend deep underground, in which you heard recordings of all the things anyone had ever said about you, both good and bad. The catch was, you had to pass through all the worst things people had said first before you could get to the best things said about you, at the very bottom. This wasn’t even my dream, and my friend told me about it over a quarter century ago, but I’ve never forgotten it.

So how many steps do you see yourself descending?

This fragile-ego fuck would't get too far.

Kreider says:

There is no way I would make it more than two and a half steps down such a staircase,... 

but that

the dream-metaphor is clear enough: if you want to enjoy the rewards of being loved, you also have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known. 

I am known to few. Too few.

But getting back to hard to pronounce words, why would anyone include the word "clasped" in a song.

Hard to say let alone sing.

Know me.