Mother, my hands are not my own. The ones I have are someone else's. They are useless to me. My old ones have been removed. And these all man's hands have been grafted on the other place. I took a fly the other day and rolled it stamped between these lamps and a half of the fingers, tried to woo some sensation into them but it was hopeless.
My feet, too, are different. I'm convinced they're not my old ones. It must happen whilst I'm asleep, when the shadows deepen, and the forces of the in between come alive. I walk a lot, I have covered many lonely miles, and I know each blister and crack that lurks between my toes. They are not mine, I am sure of it.
My other ones remind two soldiers, battle hardened as tough as the leather purse. Now they are like a countess's feet, milky and fine, more use to snuggling beneath a hardwood desk. And they scream and pain when I put any weight on them. May be there are means that spy on men's and women's hearts when they are asleep or irritated up to me; annoyed that I can sense them, that I challenge them, in a black long eyes before dawn.
So, a plan has been formed to cut me a new body, limb by limb. My old one is hacked from me when I do chance to sleep, and the new one, so long. I know that it's horrid because I can twist the fines that is across my joins. It is like a cobweb line from a spider's web. You have to really look, or you'll miss it. They are working at me, changing me, peace by peace. They will end with my eyes because when they replace them they will have my soul.