There is a buzzing in the wall. It never leaves. This is not a story with a beginning or an end. It is the record of a tremor in a hand. The taste of metal in the mouth. The shape of a coat in a dark room. It is a book about the small, perfect circles of damage we leave on countertops, the fingerprints we find on glasses that may or may not be our own, and the constant, low hum of a house that is always settling. Naraya Paroi has not written a guide to survival. She has written a document of it. A fragmented, raw account of what it feels like to check the lock on the door again, and again, and again. It is a book to be felt, like a bruise, not read like a map.
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