Too often these days, I get a sense that I'm disappearing, fraying at the edges, the warp and weft of me disintegrating with each mild earthquake, the turmoil that is life. Nothing is getting done: the chapter I need to write, the stories I feel forming in my subconscious, the little art projects I want to do just to fulfil something necessary in me, crying out for substantiation. Meanwhile I dream these vivid dreams of being devoured, or eating until I am too big to leave the house, or cutting pieces of my body and handing them out to a queue of loved one and enemy. Soon, there will be nothing left of me.

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