We are little miracles. Tiny ones, even, who never stop shedding our skins, over and over. The world settles in our sweat. Alone, though, with no memory of what drove us into this life that jealous people claim is ours. Forgotten, skins fall one after another, like caresses that—much moreso than our cells, in truth—create them, these skins, which are neither ours nor those of others, regardless of the energy that we spend, at night, exchanging them.