As his mouth opens, it’s not just air that escapes but a reversal of self, a flipping of his face as if turning the page of a weathered book or a sock inside out. This unfolding is slow, a meticulous peeling back of layers. From the depths, the first to emerge are tiny screws, the kind you’d find lost in the crevices of a pocket watch, followed by crumpled notes, edges frayed, ink smeared. These notes flutter to the ground, secrets he thought he’d discarded, now laying bare for the world.
