Stranger, your Chucks turned up at the toes, I want you to Google me and find nothing because once over anything, a person needs someone who doesn’t leave cabinet doors hanging open overhead; a rowboat, a tin-can telephone, a still animal (context: a sea of extracts). You: Compose sad tweets about censorship. Me: Drive parallel to the train, keeping within the boundaries of its length. This performance will be a gift, its gardens interior (context: domestic). Its program notes will be the construction signs, the dramaturge unknown, or maybe a 0s+1s machine (context: Alphaville). Our passage will be at night, after the football + bat traffic is reabsorbed by the residences, the orange bulbs burning vigilantly + the traffic cones our ushers, lights down, lights up, another place.