There is a loose thread. A flicker in the wiring. A hum in the walls. For one narrator, trapped in the quiet echo of a past relationship, the mundane world begins to unravel.
Notes on a Slow Collapse is not a memoir; it is a raw, sensory document of a mind obsessively cataloging the small failures of everyday life—a bent spoon, a stained ceiling, a slow leak in a tire—in an attempt to make sense of a much larger, internal collapse. Told in a fragmented, deeply intimate voice, this collection of essays pulls the reader through the haunted landscape of memory and the disquieting textures of the present.
This is a book about the stories we tell ourselves about the broken things: in our homes, in our pasts, and in our own minds. It is an unsettling, unforgettable investigation into the twin engines of aversion and obsession, and what happens when the surfaces of our lives begin to peel away, revealing the rot underneath.
