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What does it look like when breath catches in your throat? Where did the storyteller, whose lungs are now fit to burst with failed exhalation even begin? Couldn’t it have been told differently? More recognisably?
There are some subjects that are at once difficult to examine and impossible to turnaway from. There are some stories that turn back in on themselves, in a Möbius strip. What becomes of the author who knowing this conundrum, sets themselves the task of travelling within that loop, regardless?