When I write this, I think that there are two versions of myself and just one managed to get out, first out of the brewery, then out of the town, out of the country, back to Norway. The other is still there, with the other ghosts in the house, shut in while the storm and the sea tears at the walls outside. I bend over this white sheet and pull her out, the one who is left in the brewery, pick her up from the bottom: Arms, swollen fingers, broken skull, burst lungs. Her face is white, covered in lime, algae skeletons, beer froth, and sea foam. I
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