"To forget is often harder than to remember."

"Memory levels everything. It erases everything except the strongest memory. The weakest, the happiest ones, you have to struggle to find them, to retrieve them from the depths, muddy and full of seaweed. But why bring them to the surface now? Why revive what is hidden in memory? Why keep digging into it, asks the mother, and you, instead of answering, open your mouth again and try to name it, to dig up one shard after another, to fit them into words, into images, and perhaps in this way prevent something similar from happening to someone else."

What happens when abuse passes from generation to generation? How heavy is the price of being "different"? In his autobiographical debut, Marek Tórstvík doesn't sugarcoat or settle for answers, cutting to the bone of memory, where reality and consciousness intertwine with fluidity and dangerous consequences.