Jenny Hval

They could return to themselves, disappear into their enclosures. I was alone again.

Later I felt the walls of the attic close in, collapse around me and shut out the world. The music separated me from the sound of cars, wind, and my own steps.

Alison, I said we’re sinking
There’s nothing here but that’s okay
Outside your room your sister’s spinning

I looked up frequently and would catch her watching me, and we’d study each other’s faces for a brief moment before returning to our books.

Maybe we have been living among ghosts all this time, the shipwrecked and the brewery workers.

When I walk down the street, it’s a struggle, as if I have roots in the house that are stretched long behind me,

Only the wind moves her. And then she is gone.

turned around, sat down on the toilet seat and looked down between my legs, where a thin stream of urine trickled into the bowl.

Urine streamed against the porcelain bowl.

and finally a trickling