she remembers that week. then she doesn't remember it. she remembers nothing. all her memories go to noise, go satirical and loud and uncontrollable—they fly like teeth and balloons from her brain to the open bones of her eyes, and clang there, lodge and impact and burst there. the months accumulate like houses in the middle of nowhere. and her sense of irony, finally, her cheap way of paradox, of that self-blanking kind of truth and calm, of easing, sometimes, into the sarcastic haze of living—it goes bad, like an awful, leaden, jam-packed something in her head.