Yesterday (Friday), I found it very strange to be a person. There are occasions (and certainly more of them at present) when it is just plain peculiar to have a body, be a human, have ridiculous and often exhausting thoughts from dawn until dusk. Being a person is constant work and attention at the best of times, a raging mess of rocks and impossibility at the worst, and it can be difficult to see oneself as anything other than just an ageing accumulation—an accumulation of scrapes and loves and nutrients and weather.