We are parcelled out into healthy areas and metastasised areas. Parts of us are still whole, too much has been invaded. Loving someone else destroys our ideas of who we are and what we want. Priorities change, friends change, houses change, we change. Part of the strangeness of being human is our need of boundaries, parameters, definitions, explanations, and our need for them to be overturned.
Death comes too late.
The final shattering affects others, but not ourselves. You've said this is an experimental novel. All my work is experimental in that it plays with form, refuses a traditional narrative line, and includes the reader as a player. By that I mean that the reader has to work with the book. In the case of Written on the Body, the narrator has no name, is assigned no gender, is age unspecified, and highly unreliable.