"Sometimes it would be nice, I think—it would be a relief—to be so certain. To be so sure, to have such sharp edges. To know where one began and ended.

But I did, in fact, use to be sure, to be that certain. And it felt like this: like a hard stone in my body that caught and scraped, and made it difficult to move. That made it impossible to feel, to taste and trace the contours of myself, of others."