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Trisha Low is always dying. Age, place, fictional rendering - all are subsumed to an origin already negated. She and her doubles evacuate with unmoving horror their teenage mania, displacing it, emptying the identities about whom its despair circulates. Once, maybe, this Trisha Low generated bodily heat, ate breakfast, loved and desired. No more. The Compleat Purge razes its confessional charms like effigies, foreclosing Low’s final vixi to her own secrets before they too are obliterated in time immemorial. “He had gone from her sight, he had not lifted his bowed head, he had not looked back.” -J. Gordon Faylor

J. Gordon Faylor