Pain is sharp if it is ours. Pain is dull if it is mine. You have blessed distance here like tit-clamps in a magazine you read about but never feel. Scrapbooks of enduring sighs, their edges soaked in acetone. Rotten dregs of fateful jaws.
Disability has teeth.
It really truly sorely does. My stump, it writes calligraphy. A cavity to joyous lips that dance with all their present bones. Dental floss, a pen perhaps. But nothing for the aching parts except this spinning, spinning song of throwing very heavy stones.