A fistful of cloth, skin between teeth, and the way the eyes go red when the planks start pounding. Long-burning fires that shine on oil slicks. Broken stroller-glass and murder scenes, and rust-old nails driven into wood from an extinct tree.

Fog and fountains. Worn folds on old letters and peels of wallpaper. Pressed flowers in tossed-out books. Pipes and bathtubs, cries with no audience, no funerals, and the houses that go empty too long for repairs to be made.

Hot steam, a blush, pink-slick dancefloors, bucket grease fingers that clutch slot-machine crank and a hand reaching down. Sweet meats and fever dreams, more and more and more. Rolling on the ground in all the animal blood and loving it.

The hologram copy of the model and the fake, and the gloved hand that builds the countdown clock. Radio noise that cuts through the signal and the regimented decay. The video screens, black hallways, and how it can all go away in the blink of an eye.