The matte-black sleeve of Disintegration by The Cure shows signs of wear, like a scar I openly displayed, and I have carried it throughout my twenties. It initially came out when I left my first apartment: I put the record in a battered tote bag, and the edge got stuck on the metal lock of the strap, creating a tatty hole. Since then, the casualties have been adding up: cracks, holes, frayed edges, a footnote, a place I left, a version of myself I outgrew.