Fewer than any hand’s fingers are the body movements that escape the motion sensor’s sensibility as they do our constant blinking, batting eyes. A single flick of the finger is sensed by the bathroom neons, divulging and ridiculing bodies that are no longer stimulated to fantasise as recluses. Murmurs welled up into coherent bursts of wickedness as we stand reflected in the spotless denture of a demon. Wait. This is you. A doll’s box with a clear cellophane front. Unboxed.
80 in years in daylight, 200 years in darkness.