Those first few weeks after he moved, he spent most nights chiseling and sanding away who he used to be. The walls of the one bedroom apartment were covered in glossy pages torn from magazines, articles cut from the neighbours’ newspaper, quotes copied from the few books he kept neatly aligned along the floor.

The books were the one thing from his previous self he refused to give up. He’d make them fit in this new world he was creating.

The rough edges gone, his surfaces smooth, he covered himself, rubbed in oils and resin, to glow and stay protected.

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