The last thing that touched me was my blanket. And before that: my socks, my shirt, my pants. Looking back enough we can assign a physical presence to the gestures of friendship performed by people that are too far away from me. But I don’t want to pretend that it’s enough because lies are just delayed suffering. Therefore I sit, hoarding every single touch ordering them one by one in the darkness of the belly of the beast in which I crawl and cram myself