God, this place smells like shit. Get up, loser.

You're in the woman's pisser. What are you doing here? Trying to gatecrash another party? Gatecrashing's only fun if you care. Everyone knows that.

What are you moody about?

Yes you are. What's the point?

Don't try and be funny. What's the point in being a right crukker?

🖤

Hmm. No.

Can we help you?

Baby! Get the gun!

Frayed, faded days of late-summer. The suns hung lazily, uninterested in coming or going. Zorah was painting again. She was thinking about flower cross-pollination. A little of me, a little of you. The tip of her brush rested in her mouth. She decided she would make more paint.

Resting the brush on the edge of the easel, Zorah turned to her mixing station. She crushed up some flowers, added the binder and solvents, tested it on a tissue. She wanted a drink badly. Where was everyone when you needed them?

Later, she would go to the sea again, and think of that raw scar of arrival. Her body had started to close in — not exactly shut down, not even give up... it was just that there was a small delay. Sometimes the body just couldn't process the idea. She was slow. Why rush?

(The other day I remembered the Axis. If only you knew what I saw! I can't put it into words, and so I will paint it every day in everything for the rest of my life.)

When the craft landed on the beach, it violated several local edicts and spoiling a lot of tourists' afternoons. Zorah found herself wondering where Quinn was, what he was doing. She felt a sudden urge to hold his hand.

i let my rage control me. / i let my grief dictate me.

Oh. I didn't realize there was anyone in the kitchen. You must be one of my sons' partners, yes?

[Ignoring the weird address] You're here about my paintings? Well, these things usually go through my agent... ( but )...

Who the cruk are you???