An Ohio housewife stands in her kitchen baking pies and tarts for a small business while her mind cascades through an unbroken torrent of thought that spans over a thousand pages in a single, breathless sentence. Lucy Ellmann's novel is a radical experiment in literary form: nearly the entire book consists of one continuous stream of consciousness, with clauses linked by the recurring phrase "the fact that," mirroring the way an anxious mind connects disparate worries, memories, and observations without pause. The unnamed narrator thinks about her four children, her husband, her cats and chickens, her dead mother, the threat of mass shootings, environmental collapse, the history of American violence, recipes, and the landscapes of Ohio — all tumbling together in a flow that refuses to separate the domestic from the political, the trivial from the catastrophic. Interspersed with this monologue are brief, lyrical chapters following a mountain lioness protecting her cubs, offering a wordless counterpoint to the narrator's verbal avalanche. The effect is unlike anything else in contemporary fiction. What initially seems overwhelming gradually becomes hypnotic, as Ellmann reveals how a single consciousness can contain an entire civilization's anxieties. The novel captures the particular texture of life in twenty-first-century America — the background hum of news alerts, the weight of historical guilt, the fierce protectiveness of parenthood — with an intimacy that conventional narrative structure could not achieve. It is a demanding book that rewards patience with an experience of extraordinary depth and emotional power.