Your nails have grown to a length your mother would be disappointed in. Your hands may be your own but they do not attach to you in your mind – no – they are alien to you. Palms hardened with yellow calluses, knuckles growing thicker with each bend and clench. You know your hands are yours but not really because when you brush your skin with them you feel no sensation through them. You stand near the window and push your nail into the glass. Time has passed since the window reflected back at you. Now it will sometimes bleed light into the room, sometimes it rattles like the skin of a drum, you like when it rattles. You press your nail against the glass and wait.