A skin of a shroud
a stump of the bled
old Lily is flyblown
old Lily is dead
and dreams of the jungle
will flood through her head
and light up her head.

Fabian: Namaste.
Michael: Nama-go-fuck-yourself.

She looks like a bloodhound in front of a wind mill.

Okay, listen, we should get our stories straight, all right? If anyone asks - and no one's gonna ask, don't worry - but if anyone asks, tell them as far as you know, the last time you checked, everyone looked pretty much alive, all right? Not dead.

Mirror: A mirror hangs above a bent and broken sink. In a fierce discharge of masculine energy, someone has ripped half of the faucet off.

Conceptualization: Was this not the same elan that founds empires and lays waste to cities, virile, uncaring towards the little things?