Amid the explosion of a lifetime's repressed emotions, there is a narrative thread, albeit heavily fragmented.

Mouth begins with her loveless premature beginning - ' … out … into this world … this world … tiny little thing … ' - reviewing 70 uneventful years in less than a minute. Breathless spasmic syntax carries intense and incoherent thought, seemingly without a break. In fact, within a minute, she does pause (prompting the simple arms-flap 'movement 1' by the downstage Auditor) to enquire and exclaim ' … what? … who? … no! … she!'

There follows a longer section considering her survival, twice punctuated by her scornful laughing at the idea that there might be a merciful God, and then by screaming, before another transition is marked by repeating ' … what? … who? … no! … she! …' (prompting a second, less pronounced movement by the Auditor).

Then comes her realisation that 'words were coming' which she cannot stop and again the questioning and denials of ' … what? … who? … no! … she! …' (prompting a third but 'scarcely perceptible' movement by the Auditor).

There follows a shorter but more painful stream (occasioning the Auditor's fourth and final movement).

An even shorter piece that recognises 'the stare she was getting' climaxes with the persistent questioning and insistent retort: ' … what? … who? … no! … she! … SHE!'

Finally, the memory of that traumatic spring morning recurs (for a fifth time) and the only thing she can do with her story is to 'pick it up' again and continue, as she must when confronted with her next audience.