All over the house, my wife scatters pieces of herself. They aren’t visible to any form but are depicted for me in scraps of writing crumbled by her bedside, on her desk, and in our dinning room. She knows they’re a hassle, but she can’t find the heart to remove them. I suppose everyone has a piece of them within something but for most people it must be in the things they take for granted, like their house, the rain, and each other. As for my piece, I think it’s hidden in those papers as well.