Page 97 is the halfway point. I think I won’t survive past page 97, but if I do, it’s because of the single hair nestled along the left edge of the page. It runs like a stream through the paragraphs, snakes from its dark source near the “97” and gradually turns a red hue as it empties into the spine near the start of the page. The very tip of it is almost bleached blonde.
I could not tell you the growth rate of hair, or whether it’s true that hair grows at a different rate for women if they are ovulating, but I can look at each curve of the hair and guess what was happening at that particular segment.
There is where she traveled to Italy.
There she felt ill and had to be in hospital for a week.
There is where she met her Danish love.
There is where they became engaged before his visa expired.
If I could predict the future, I’m confident it would be a waste, a party trick and cheap means to make money. Limitation is the stuff that dreams are made of.
I went into the bathroom and lay down on the bathroom tiles. This was all just too much for me.