She has been born so many times that the experience lacks all novelty. Gush of amniotic fluid, a bright pain that she knows she will later learn as light, the thundering normality of lungs emptying and filling for the first of a hundred thousand breaths. Voices she has heard and loved and forgotten speaking again for the first time.

The slow inevitable ascent of puberty. Crying in the bathroom, the taste of blood on her lip after gym, bad skin and better. The old familiar torments. She wakes up restless and angry and it takes her days to remember the name for what she feels, weeks to recall the names of her mayfly tormentors.

She watches her father die again. Grief is as automatic and empty as a sneeze.

She gives birth, fights with her daughter, sees her married, sees her grandchildren. They blur together. She meets a man in the woods and cannot remember what he is, parent, child, lover, monster. The existence of things has begun to dissolve, a cigarette in the wind.

She dies. Is born. Again and again. Light and sound, calligraphy, meaningless noise.

What will happen when she finally forgets she can’t know for certain, but after infinite time even weariness has its limits.