Unmoving. Unmoved. The world ended yesterday, but breakfast this morning was delicious. Her posture. A position of a person’s body or body parts. But also an attitude or way of behaving, especially when adopted to have an effect on others. Her body is still, eyes glazed, she wants to become landscape. Gallery visitors drift among sculptures and oil paintings, unaware of her  shape in the corner, even with the rule-bending stilettos and bright lipstick. They all look blind, anyway. Her feet begin to hurt. Today, art class was more interesting than usual, since nobody was there. In the center of the cluttered room, under the light, she adopted a martyr’s pose, arms lifted with wrists crossed, gaze uplifted, clothes on the floor. A very thin girl wearing gigantic sunglasses the color of oranges when they’re not orange yet, entered, sat down and began to film her with a super 8 camera. Elsewhere, now she brushes powder across pale cheeks, leaning over a face drained of breath. The old woman is by her side, her hands steadier, her voice instructive, reminding that every gesture must hide the truth of absence. She works measuredly, as though restoring not flesh but memory. Nothing changes except the world about her. Silence is of the essence. She spends increasingly more time with her eyes closed. When she gets to her bunker, the lights are on.The coil of hemp rope is on the floor as she left it. She had had the impression that it might have moved like a cobra somehow, hidden itself. Her legs no longer show the faint indentations, but she took pictures of them. It is late. Later. Her breath shallow from the corset, a long one, she’s gone all the way, her fingers numb from pulling. She films herself, adjusts the dress, checks her makeup, her mask. She doesn’t trust mirrors. The mini-fridge the mongolian girl stole for her as a token of her appreciation for the shibari tips is packed with champagne and custard tarts, which she forgets to eat. Now, it’s dark. Out, and she’s at the catacombs. Muffled sound of basinski’s disintegration loops echoes along the ever-stretching corridor she walks slowly along. The path is winding, lit by sparse neon lights whose intermittent glow produces a characteristic hum. The reverberating sound waves possess a hypnotic quality, inducing a sweet vertigo. Each inhalation makes the corset bury itself deeper into the flesh, the pressure transmuting into a feeling of detachment that she finds appropriate for this moment. Then, a barely visible outline of a door, a slit opens. A voice asks for a password. She offers none, lifts her mask to reveal perfect lips sealed with a large strip of clear tape. The door gives way. She peers inside. A silent, seemingly vast room, more hidden than revealed by the flickering light of a distant chandelier on the floor. Licked by fire, the silhouette of a massive armchair. She enters and approaches it, accompanied by the echo of her heels on the hard wood. She stands by it, not moving. Footsteps, or the thought of them, approach from behind. She cannot turn. She does not try. A presence resolves itself. The air changes. A gloved hand enters her awareness, efficient, impersonal. Tape presses on her face. Then another strip. Over the nose. Then again. The redundancy is precise. Deliberate. The hand withdraws. The room waits as rooms do. The chair does not move, neither does she. She blinks and the light is less decisive. If meaning does not arrive, she will supply it with small, deliberate untruths. Lying down next to the chair, thinking not of why, not of how long, but of the curious economy of it all. How little is needed. How much. She likes that thinking is optional. This liking is a small, private architecture that keeps her warm for a moment and then collapses.