Somewhere in a world that didn’t quite end, a woman like me is foraging for that which failed to kill her. She is cranking open modernity’s throat, wrenching her arc from its scat. She is a woman who can hack an impossible morning into water, bean paste, bitter leaves, another chance to fumble toward the next chance, and the next— Every day of my life has been something other than my last. Every day, an extinction misfires, and I put it to work.
