This comfortably joins the club of such disparate cross-medium artists as Jane Remover and Conner O'Malley in representing a hyper-aware, skin-crawlingly paranoid scatterbrain and over-indulging sex-obsessed self-repugnancy that, like it or not, feels like the sound of right now. I usually see this kind of thing get called 'terminally online', but if you spend any time out-of-doors, you'll realise that everyone under a certain age is infected with strands of it through cultural osmosis, and I don't except myself. Kemp writes with the voice of an academic who spent her formative years posting superwholock fanfics to a 12-follower Tumblr account, so she's as well-equipped as anyone to embody the internet era diaspora. Infinite media subsumed, Greek Mythology filling out the back pages of a cum-stained porno mag. A billion existences of thought at your fingertips, but the corporeal life left rotting in the muskiest corner of four stagnant walls. Reality so desperately wishes for a cohesive narrative to take control of her life, but those died with the last millennia. She can barely express a thought as a coherent word or action. We are all aliens transmitting thin simulacra of human interaction, so I suppose it was only a matter of time until someone wrote a book about one. I mean, it's not subtle. Her name is Reality.