I’m thinking about the difference between painting something into a surface, embalming/mummifying something, encasing/binding it, wrapping it, compressing it, and all the skins, remains and tracks left by these actions. I’m thinking about how unusual harvestmen are – or daddy long legs. I’m thinking about looking away, looking downwards, eradicating their 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 this new orientation. I’m thinking about how porous our 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 it is the most minuscule objects that undo 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 with my PIP application on Saturday. 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.