Frost in flavors of stone. A brisk young woman squares herself in beige, as if hardy mums weren’t being hardy. The streets stick out their tongues and say AAAH. Parked cars leak dismal fluids. Their tires flatten so gradually no one cares. The brisk young woman plants herself at a table and unfolds a laptop. On the screen, the face of God. She erases it with a keystroke and a giggle. She wants to be alone with the universe. A cry from beyond sizzles in the ether, but the coffee shop crowd hears only the faintest yellow hum. The brisk young woman types so vigorously she sheds her clothes, and by the time she has finished a paragraph she’s as naked as a capstan. No one notices or cares. Such dedication to one’s work is common now, and pointed like a stick. She types and types, and after another paragraph her face blues with the bruise of the cosmos. No pain, only an aura of success. She posts on her web page an honest account of her life in a distant galaxy. The sparkle and crack of shorted neurons light entire cities. Such energy flatters everyone. She completes her work with an exclamation point. Now with a simple gesture she’s fully dressed again and closing her laptop, crushing a million egos left exposed.