We are ghosts waiting to be ghosts.
She awakens from herself like antinomy in the mucky depths of a mire. Has no memory to witness her past through her present. Recollections exist as the emotions surrounding forgotten events of her former life. And in the distance, a gangrenous conurbation crumbles upon the menacing horizon. Emotional familiarity moves her soil stain bare feet toward the decimation that might've been her city. Her unknown lost home. Finds friends and enemies and love and terror in the grim pyre of her history upon the ashes of her contemporary and the dust of the present upon her M bius past.The world of this story is where the cavernous brutality of Veronica Roth's Divergent crashes over the parapet and into the stranding paranoia of JG Ballard's Concrete Island. Both are beaten to death by the panopticism of Michel Foucault's Discipline and Punish.
The Girl From The Mire takes place in the tenebrous night and battles with an inner monologue of Nietzschean eternal recurrence against fissures of Foucaultian historical caesura. And there's a monster flowing in her blood. Breaths like a broken buried pine lid coffin. The hollow echo of a crackling dusty old distorting record player. Her body wants to destroy her with every atom.