She took the book from the shelf. A dark, sturdy cover, gothic characters painted in shiny blue. It was a thick one. She went through the index. 23 chapters. She looked at the back cover, that was her way of being – wrong – always jumping on and off, being on there, then nowhere, losing portions of time and bites of herself. She finally went for the title – of course, leave it last – and her eyebrows almost reached her hairline in a silent shock when she realized the book had her name as a title.

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