Written as one long stream of consciousness, the biggest challenge is actually living, intimately, inside the head of a hebephile for the duration of the read. This meandering soliloquy has a hypnotic effect and you feel assaulted by scene after scene of remorse, justification and predatory behaviour. Despite odd-ball characterisation, the fact that this self-destructive fantasy is grounded in real possibility makes it all the more menacing.
I’d fret about this as I walked around the fields among the Blaarkop cows, trying to listen to your dad, who was complaining about all the molehills, going on about the traps we needed to set, and for a moment I hoped I’d get caught in one of the traps, for it to be over, I’d walk into the trap and tell your dad that I was blind, blinded by you, but that I’d slowly seen the light – but those thoughts evaporated just as quickly as they’d come because there you were in the field, wearing for the first time a white dress with puff sleeves, and I wavered, my heavenly chosen one, I wavered between admiration, adoration and jealousy.
