...a literature ordered according to the infinite task of extracting from the depths of oneself, in between the words, a truth which the very form of the confession holds out like a shimmering mirage (Michel Foucault)
K: I go throughout my day and think so many things, feels so many things, and I push them down deep until they fester. The stink is atrocious. I don’t want to live like that anymore. My smile is frozen and only melts in the sunshine of my son, Noah.
