Once we’re alone the layers come off like daisy petals, ripped from our bodies and tossed aside with an urgent abandon. Those once sacred fortune tellers play into a fools game; “does he love me, does he not?” The house is quiet but the walls buzz—hum to remind us they’re still there—and a string of white Christmas lights taped to the world outside illuminate us for what we really are. A naked stem and a mystic, entangled on the living room floor.