With composed brevity and a hip, off-brand optimism, Polek mines a bottomless crevasse of depressive inclinations and self-imposed disembodiment. From the depths, she yanks a lamp that is so lit it proves bright enough to reveal the reader’s own isolations with insight, but isn’t too hot as to burn the skin. The reader is made to feel as safe as the vignettes’ conveyor-belts behind layers of glass, scrims, walls, and doors. You are permitted to leave the page chuckling, while still gazing out the window wondering if you should dare re-enter this terrifying reality.

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