There are holes in my skin. I’m not talking about pores or those sort of biological things, but another type all together. If you look through them (and you can if you ask nicely) you can see different rooms: each hole a window. If you look through the one on my calf, you can see a kitchen; the one on my thigh shows a ballroom with polished floors and chandeliers; and so on.

Sometimes, you can see little people, but mostly they are empty. Little dust bunnies and tumble weeds rolling around the floors.