Small Weald had lost the means whereby she could conjure a sense of the person she was. Her ego was sorely taxed and self-observance had gone beyond a joke. Every day, she seemed to succumb to wound or trauma, and the only escape open to her was to leave her body. Detached then were her eyeballs and Small knew not how she would be able to return those orbs to the sockets that usually housed and shuttered them. They floated free, roved above Small’s head, former seekers of adventure and beauty now reduced to speechless autoscopy. She had been a woman who never saw a handsome man that she couldn’t help but love the guy some; now she rose up above herself and the men she met and all she could see was the quarrelsome tangle of her curls and the spread of male pattern baldness. The faces were lost to her, as hers was to them. Nor could she puzzle out how she would become once more a person who looked out from – rather than down on – the body whose flesh and bone had once kept her heart warm. The phenomenon was a conundrum, for sure. The problem was momentous; the answer, one of moments. Moments slowly grown back together, become one. Whole; the self served.