There is a red leather sofa, a plate of old crab and a tall narrow glass container in the centre of the room. The floor sounds like it’s hiding something, the curtains smell like a sailor’s beard. Not all the windows are hidden, some have been nailed shut and some have flies lining up for the orgy in the rot on the sills. You can see as if through frozen corneas; yesterday’s smoke rising up to meet last week’s fumes on their way down to join the smog in the upholstery. The creeping dust provides a winter coat for the badger on the shelf and the palm by the easel. Remnants adorn the place; shells, skins and shavings gather to see the body on display. Draped like a lip on a bite from an apple, a young woman lies beneath her thick fur coat and hat and gloves and doesn’t stir or twitch. The paintbrush drinks from the mug by the man in the glass container.