Ever since she can remember she lived believing that the wrist bone was a swelling that would grow until it would kill her. At the age of seven she was told she would not die from that, even though she still has a need to find bumps everywhere. At sixteen, she discovered Victor Català, and the fever to read brought her, a year later, to Barcelona, where she started her Literary Studies degree. There she reads Foster Wallace and becomes besotted with Max Ernst's paintings and Deleuze's rhizomes.
