You run into the closet with a stack of paper and some pens. You get to writing with all the inspirational fury billowing through your head.
That's where they find you, two weeks later, when the neighbors start to complain about a smell. Curled up in the fetal position in a nest of saliva and shredded attempts at Taco Pop formulas. Tens of thousands of dollars in forensics investigation doesn't manage to piece together half of what happened to you, but you don't know about any of that.
On the other hand, every time a Taco Pop is opened, every time a child drinks a whole child-size Taco Pop in one long guzzle, in the subjective space that used to house your consciousness, there's a little flutter. A little flutter of joy.