I’m thinking about the difference between painting over something, wrapping it, compressing it, binding, embalming or mummifying it, and all the skins these produced. I’m thinking about how unusual harvestmen/daddy long legs are. I’m thinking about looking away, looking downwards, and eradicating hiding spots. I’m thinking about eyes that muddy, magnify, or mosaic. I’m thinking about what the opposite of sky view is. I’m thinking about how long I’d have to stay sealed to a wall for my heart rate to stop objecting to my upright position and accept a new orientation. I’m thinking about how porous skin is, and how sponges are usually the dirtiest thing in a kitchen. I’m thinking about the ice pack I’m about to press to my forehead, the ice machine supporting my dad’s knee post-butchering, the frozen peas on my mum’s face. I’m thinking about how insects like bees and ants clean each other, licking each other’s wounds and scraping parasites or spores off their bodies before they can hurt the whole, but then termites seal the sick within individual burial tombs. I’m thinking about isolation, about illness, about how I skirt around them because I’m scared they’ll swallow even more parts of me. I’m thinking about Clarice Lispector and how she understood that the most minuscule objects can completely unravel us. I’m thinking about how I want my access support artist, Steph, to help me wrap my feet in dough on Saturday or work out how to turn a Reddit thread into a song. I’m thinking about how actually I need her to help me finish my PIP application. I’m thinking about what I really really want her to do – wash my hair, hoover under my bed, and hand-wash my compression garments. I’m thinking about dust as always. I’m thinking about how long I want to spend editing this.