After sex, a world without music. Doll parts, tough hair, tiny fingers. I do some magic but nothing disappears. It’s a nightmare in which people finally understand one another. I look at the audience and I am the audience. The world is sick, the baby is sick. Real humans rise out of context. I exist anywhere. I am not who I was supposed to be. I am the mailman. I am footless. I am the red dress girl, neither home nor missing.