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On the other side of the glass, the night asserts its authority; but

we are inside, suspended by spirits, and preserved in a healthful

light that fills the room and shines out through large windows to

the edge of the clearing.

Twigs crack like whips as a woman emerges from the forest. She

steps forth, bearing a dark cylinder; it stands in prominent

contrast to her nudity as she moves into the light. The room is

crowded, but I’m the only one watching as she takes the cylinder

into her mouth. She smashes the window with that object. It

lands at my feet—a bar of black soap, rigid and wet. The party

stands transfixed as she crawls through the broken glass. The

light grows dim, and with her mouth full of lather she announces,

“I come from the City of Hair beyond the Wrinkled Mountain and I

will not rest until I’ve washed every penis in this room.”