She says that nothing about her is whole or half. She says she's made of scraps, remnants of different times. Distant times. She, in truth, is many. Fragments loose in time, perhaps forgotten, that connect in a space without a mold. Sometimes square. Sometimes circular, without a center. A center without borders. Various contours, no form. And this Girl was so many, that perhaps she can no longer find herself in the present. 🤏🤏