The skin of fruit, glowing under its neural membrane: how one's mouth closes around the webbed strings, the casing, the pulp— It isn't the knife that is the enemy. I had been saying for some time that we cannot choose what to feel. None of it, all of it: one burns just as fiercely as the other. All of it is ours. What goes through you as a great hurt— is it indistinguishable from other stylets that found their way beneath your skin? Sharps, they're called. Needles. A catheter. A probe. Something that knows exactly where you are most tender.