Three cuts are, arguably, not many -- unless one realizes they all came within an hour of each other. Why did my horoscope not warn me that last night I was particularly vulnerable to sharp things?

The interesting thing about pain is that it makes one completely aware of the body part that is injured. How often have I taken stock of the state of my fingertips? While I curled in bed, I could feel the blood pulsing against my band-aid. I imagined how I would feel if my entire being encompassed only that small patch of broken skin. If each separate part of me was its own entity, had its own eyes, its own thoughts. If I was just that fingertip, and I rocked back and forth against the pressure of the mending workmen, come to piece me together again.

Then I stretched my thoughts down, imagined myself as only a patch on my sole -- I saw the view of my toes reaching above, the hardness of my heel weighing me down behind. I could feel my flannel sheets against me, as if the sensation of rubbing against that fabric were the only feeling in the world.

I kept up my game, becoming my elbow, the back of my knee, the sweet spot inside my ear that luxuriates in Q-tips. As I finally fell asleep, I let my attention wander back to my pained, pulsing digit, and dreamt of my blood.