Hannah Regel has built a book, a house, a place to escape one’s muting duties. A place of scars, write-offs, rags. It’s a dirty lustful pit where domesticity has been exposed for its perversion, and is nearly liberated. For if one cannot escape their place, a new place must be built: a home that no man dare to enter. Because what’s inside is bovine and bloody. Fleshy and rotting. Corpses, mold. “When I Was Alive” is a political tactic. A safe house for those attempting to escape the trap of history, “the catastrophe of repetition”.