an unexpectedly gripping depiction of a very particular type of interiority, one defined not so much by an inner landscape of robust perspective and identity but by the negative space surrounding it. much as melville's description of the sea in moby dick gives a backdrop for the whale's jutting streak of white, so do the circumstances that alex faces serve as a canvas through which she moves, a shoreline along which she carves out a stubborn momentum (or is it inertia?) of comforts and vague certainties for herself. that this momentum is ultimately insufficient at best and rooted in delusion at worst lends a truly unsettling air of tragedy to Alex's life, even as she glides through it less like a character who's present in her own story and more as her own carefully self-constructed absence. as if she's a ghost cursed to relive this week (or this life?) over and over, and the only way to cope with the eternal recurrence of her failings is to chip away at herself until she's as gone as she's always felt.