Old selves are buried in old clothes and in old places: the multiplication of age upon age ensures that no odour is left behind.

Without this scent the part of you that stalks yourself finds nothing but an empty field — thickly overgrown with waist-high swaying grasses — and is forced to bend in the direction of each blade.

This part of you forms its own field with its own corpses and its own runes of hiding, determined to remain unfound.