The sound of door opening, keys rattling, and a truck lumbering by.
Footsteps cross towards the blinking light.
A finger nail, painted light blue, crosses into the frame and gently touches the light. I will speak only about the cave, the sharp bites of the panmorph that glosses your body at the crossroads, of relative value, of the Golden Age of Flaws,of . . . Your answers are about a lack that is no longer a part of your life, an informe, a raw base matter that you pretend to need. If only you would read more on formal structures and loss, you would realize that your reality is not only empty melodrama , but a constant source of speculation for machines all across the world. Her body is motionless.