[ it goes a bit like this: a day three, a bar with terrible potlights, and an addiction that kaveh has relied on long enough that the very taste of it sends him under once more. kaveh tosses back another shot. he is aflame with it, flush crawling up the back window of his blouse and up along the sides of his neck, to coil like flame along the high arched bridge of his cheeks.

as if only heat and motion can expel it, he is waving his cup. ]

And this city has no love and adoration for art whatsoever! [ kaveh is saying to fearne. not telling, saying, in the way of means of one-way communication, because sometimes communication is just saying things really loudly and not really needing anyone to do anything but to sit there and behold it, ] All that gray expanse and perfectly viable wall space, and for what? To merely sit there and reflect the dreary rays of a lukewarm sun? Let me add colour to it, let me create something from it. But all it does is take murals and cast them to wherever all the damage goes. It thinks it's damage. The nerve of it, to think a singular act of love ought to be treated the same as a chipped tile.

[ kaveh breathes. he squints. ] Ah, sorry. I've gone off again. Fearne, right?