“I’m living on my memories like a cheap has-been. I’ve been sitting in this chair, my hand on the cat, talking aloud, fool-ramblings. Will your skin discolour, its brightness blurring? Will the contours of your stomach swell under an infertile load? It may be so, and the private drawing I keep of you will be a poor reproduction then. It may be so, Louise, but if you are broken then so am I.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body