" I've cut myself off.
I can feel the place where I used o be attached.
It's raw, as when you grate your finger. It's a shredded mess of images. It hurts.
But where exactly on me
is this torn-off stem?
Now here, now there.

Meanwhile the other girl,
the one with the memory,
is coming nearer and nearer.
She's catching up to me,
trailing behind her, like red smoke,
the rope we share. "

― Margaret Atwood , The Door