We shield ourselves from the agony of misunderstanding and the solitude born of obscurity. Is it about concealing the truth that constructs our reality, or embodying it? Blood coagulates, flesh blisters, and cells die. Their ghosts serve as the building blocks of armor. Fragments of biomatter forged in the searing crucible of suffering become instruments of imperceptibility. Scars from previous wounds act as camouflage, blending in the abrasive while leaving the comprehensible detectable. My exterior is not my truth, but rather my most potent disguise. I am merely a reflection of what you can comprehend.