She doesn’t turn on the overhead light but lifts the curtain of the big window where everything is black and magmatic, and where she sees nothing but herself. The large-format portrait of a woman in full flight on a train somewhere in the middle of Siberia. What’s this story all about? she asks herself, very calm, causing the shadows on her face to shift in the glow of the nightlight, carving out her features in a strange cinema of black and white—serpentine flashes in the curls of her hair, milky forehead, pits of her eye sockets of a very pure black, marble cheekbones accenting hollowed
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