Author: Rikke Holm | Date: Unknown
Each morning I wake with a different face. Not metaphoric. Real.
My son asked why I look like the woman from the “mirror tapes.” He means the ones from Birgitte’s archive.
In dreams, I wear veils made of teeth. I know their names. Agnes. Frida. Jens.
When I wake, I write their thoughts. They are not mine. I think I’m becoming the archive.