Her dreamy, lyrical monologue defies a linear narrative for a fragmentary poem, augmented by her nimble extensions, tentative tiptoes and arching back. At one point, crouching down with legs lifted, she appears as though airborne. She is her many selves: curious child cradling a small dead bird with care; a lover, curled around another, a woman returning to old haunts but gripped with inexorable grief. Her body's sharp, instinctive movements trace paths which feel as intimate as a secret from a sister. Metaphors from the text are brought  vividly to life with bursts of frenetic leaps, and bold gestures: breadcrumbs as stories through scrunched—up paper balls; outstretched arms for navigating new territories, pointed fingers emulating bird claws on the ground, palms down to bring a sense of respite and calm.

The text is wry and touching, finding meaning in small things. Devaney describes the trains rumbling overhead as sounding “like the devil taking a shower.” She's sanguine, always seeking “a new song” to get her through tough times. “This is about existing and not existing, and a child's heart-bursting belief that there is something in between,” she states at the outset. “How small we are,” she later muses.

There's a sense of Devaney knowing when to rise, when to gently flail, and when to simply lie prone or in a foetal position, letting Luke Sutherland's gorgeous music fill the space when words are rendered superfluous.