It's very strange that when I read Lorraine's chapbook, which I think I've heard her read before, at least most of it, but maybe I'm confused, the white space feels chaotic and full of noise, but the text feels like moments where that chaos stops long enough to get out a single sentence or a couple of them. I don't think I've ever read anything that made me feel this before. There's a rushing quality to the blankness. And it keeps making me think the word vaudeville, voix de ville.