You roll yourself around in your own head. Feel out all the cracks and bumps, touch them obsessively until you’re worn smooth and shiny. You become a distant object, gripless and unable to be gripped. Useless and unaware. Impenetrable. Isolated.
The good news is, this is just a metaphor.
You’ve still got your fingers and toes and birthmarks and scars.
You can change your mind.
Friday, March 19, 2010
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