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From the Microcosmicon, 40:

He’d almost chewed off the edge of his lip. I could see the blood from my armchair.

Mr. Depersonalization, I’d jotted down on my notebook to amuse myself as he sluggishly droned on about how he felt life was unreal, that he was merely going through motions dictated by someone else.
As the session limped toward the end, he started talking more and more slowly. Then, finally, it was over.

“Thank… you… doc… energy… low… must… recharge…” he said, trudging stiffly toward the door.
And I saw it. Not blood. But paint melting off heated metal. Underneath, a cold gray.

MQS