When truth is the sickness, there isn’t a cure. There are places you can hide, but the city is ever shifting, the streets and alleyways remaking themselves at random – you might leave a safe place only to find that retracing your steps takes you somewhere completely different and it’s gone forever. Fleeting moments of peace in vanishing sanctuaries. On your knees in cold skinned shame, new dirt on old wounds as the day dies around you much as it began, dead flies on the wall, no appetite – only hunger. Some new kind of sin – some new veiled niche in which to worship, moving on, trailing forgetful molecules, closing without memory around our passing.