‘When she is thousands of metres high, the air about her thin and cold, she will let go and fall to her death. It is the only way to truly escape the labyrinth. But as soon as this wish has formed in her mind, goose feathers begin to drift down from the sky, into the marble corridor. It should be a beautiful sight but it isn’t; she’s learnt that everything she’s ever invited into the labyrinth quickly turns strange, into something “other”. She begins to run.’ // ‘The November ...
