"My skin hates me deeply. If it depended on it, it would leave, get away from me. Leaving me more alone and naked, lacking any sensitivity and protection from the outer world. I can feel its disgust, how it fights to come off my flesh. It revolts through a viscous itch that covers me an eternity of seconds. My skin cries out its rejection to any reality that has to do with me. No posture, no texture seems to compensate the punishment of being around me, of being me. Each fibre, each pore burns in sweat, fights and sticks deep into me to move away from my body. I keep the hope that at night it'll get tired and resign itself to being an organ that belongs to me, my cover, what gives me an identity. And when i fall asleep, i dream of deserving my skin, i dream of being worthy of the calm and pleasure of the soothed itch."