she died this past summer; she nearly died. awakened by imaginary portrait preciocity, like something forming the heart, like a necklace of insights; it makes her feel as if she were in a straitjacket.

she pulls away from the hoi polloi of doomed, dreamlike strangeness like an echo. a sound cuts a complex swath through the world, a kind of fissure or rupture, artfully decrepit, cluttered, so close to the surface.

from the work to the life she emerges, imaginary. the phrase seems odd, active only in the discrepancy, in the register of the hyperreal.

she is too busy juggling lives and is discomfited; this is a gap that observes and records. a secret about a secret, issued from a past life; she seeks to make visible the relief she expresses. it should be dancing.