Logs are thicker than arms, she often thought to herself. Logs are thicker than arms she thought, thrusting a pile of ripped envelopes into the wood stove. She managed a mark of soot on her forearm to match the line of eyeliner left on her bicep in her sleep. Her arms were like plaster of Paris, not that they were white, but that they were breakable. She didn't know whose arms were whose anymore, or where to put them, but she thought: it's better to have a sadness on the sleeve than a heartache in the head. She went to bed at night with one hand left in the bookshelf: plaster of Paris with a metal wrist. Her fingers were worn and chipped from wear. Her eyes were ground to precision. She went to bed at night with both eyes folded under the lamp, heavy with fatigue.