Each morning you wake to new holes in your vision, new sharp-edged gaps; each morning you wonder what they will take from you.
At first it was only ever small things, easily unnoticed, spare chargers and half-forgotten souvenirs, the remains of a meal. Nothing that mattered.
But then you woke to find that one had opened near the center of your vision, a gash of flickering emptiness tearing at the world; and as you turned to hug someone you can't remember any more you felt it tear her apart, smelled her hot blood spilling out to soak the sheets.
You try not to look at anything now, not if you can help it. It hurts too much.
Even so you are surrounded by tattered and broken things, torn to pieces by an unwary look.
At least you've had plenty of practice not looking at yourself.