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(Painting by Moukung Pang, Taiwanese artist, 2016.)

She had her own theories of what was ailing her, of how it all worked, as if these maladies afflicting her body were all a product of her knitting handiwork, and she was proud of them. She wasn’t attempting to confide in me, I am certain of that. Perhaps, she might have wished, these maladies that were had motion. They could displace from here, this point in time, this yard of space, to there, hand in hand again, alongside her. It had always been that way, as far as she could remember, she argued: she and her maladies. Instead, it was as though her maladies had ran away, self sufficient, into the world, writing the story, leaving her, an abandoned character, alone on the pages of a first draft, given no subsequent credit for her primordial existence.

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