Every now and then I come across a scar of text embedded in my skin. If I can think from inside, without my eyes, the words seem to float at the very limit of my body's gravity. They are not content, however, to orbit at a safe distance. They insist on burning themselves up as they try their entry through the thin olive flaking epidermic atmosphere and leave strange faint marks, their pale backsides still exposed to the expanding universe. Observed from out there, with the rigorous technology of the eye, a scar seems very small, like the text had barely wounded me. The space around that slash of words seems big enough to hold them - small pockets of evidence of interaction with alien substances, that is to say, not body meeting with body, just below my bottom left rib or behind my jaw below my right ear or inside my left middle finger - condensed versions of conversations between inside and out retained as memory in tissue demarked as special by its extra density.