the family unit, in all its glory and dysfunction, imparts its own markings upon our skin. how is it that, as adult children, we end up repeating the same patterns within our clans? why do we continue to play the pecking order we were born into? why do we keep telling the same tired stories? and does repetition distort? is repetition the boundary that exists between memory and truth? when that boundary is crossed, do memory and truth become indecipherable?