Like the back of her own hand, they say

But in passing she caught glance of a back of a hand she did not know
with unknown lines and contours,
she stared as if it were the back of hands of a stranger
and in that moment she knew which part of her body would age unrecognisably first.

You imagine a scenario in which at the crucial point, you gave in to the inner numb buzz that let's you know that deeply, nothing really matters, and finally letting go, tired of all the nonsense and tired of all the voices, tired of all selfishness and all farces, tired of all the selling out of love and of justice, tired of being alone, you

got lost in the vast nothingness of white snow, snuck into a creak between the layers, embraced the numbness.