Your story is like a long breath and it’s as though the breath creates fissures through the organs in my abdomen. It crosses joints and the gaps between bones; it doesn’t touch or reach down to the soles of my feet (which is curious, because there is a lot of walking in your story). Instead the breath’s path circulates back upwards. I have to wait and see where it will lead next … and there are moments of the past: your past, your walk, you as a child, an adolescent; your breath takes me to my adolescence … to a place different from the town where you grew up.