the fact remains that body horror is an expression of intimacy. a grotesque and perverse one, maybe, but intimate nonetheless.
you have to know where the muscle and sinew connect and how they move, component parts coming together to form a whole, in order to alter their configuration. you have to know what the vital organs are and how they function to add to their number or replace them. to recognise something terrible, you need to be able to say where it went wrong. you have to understand every clench, flex, flutter, and twitch as if it were your own. you have to slip your fingers beneath the skin and run them along every surface, exploring them inside and out until you’ve committed the entire map to memory. to take something apart and remake it in your image, first you must love it.