Let me out, she cried. Set me free of this skin, coarse and dry as the days I've stood here among you. I don't belong here. I must see about walking, and then, perhaps I will see if my arms might carry me skyward to my sun and my moon. I do not breathe the same air as you. It was with these pleas that she left them, slowly shedding the paper that had covered her words for far too long.
photo: Francesca Woodman