I have wounds and I'm not sure they're mine, if they belong to someone else, if I've stolen them, if I'm wearing them like a scarf. It hurts when I move. I say it doesn't matter, and I mean it but it doesn't mean I won't cry in the moment. I can afford to cry, to hurt, to run over cliffs. I wake up and there's no rocks, no drop, just me alone in a comfortable bed. My cats. We live alone and we have a moat, a tower where only we exist. Outside is nothing but scenery.