In a room somewhere, a loom wheel spins alone.

Somewhere, on a document on a messy, abandoned desk with a toppled company stamp, one critical detail is highlighted in red.

Somewhere, under dim stage lights, the middle act starts on a tiled floor.

Somewhere, nine hundred and ninety eight men and women piled into one gray room.

Somewhere, the actor stops the act that he has always presented to others.

Somewhere, a hand is parting open its long-sealed one inch thick containment door, revealing a glimpse of an endless ocean through the opening's dark crack.

Somewhere, a stack of one hundred dollar bills is laying in the street.

Somewhere, a marked sinner launches her flail in an attempt to shatter the wheel of death, which mechanically clicks when it rotates to the eleventh of its twelve segments.

Somewhere, someone decides to leave it all behind.

And on a bridge somewhere high above water, their future self is trying to negotiate with the girl with smeared makeup, a kerosene can and a shopping bag with gummy bears in her hands.

The most important room is empty, but the walls are covered with spatters of blood that spread like unfolded wings.

Somewhere, someone is holding a kitchen-pan-sterlized scalpel, preparing to remove the chip from their head.

Somewhere, someone left a pool made of memories to be forgotten.

Somewhere, in a convenience store, everyone fell silent because they could feel dread.

It felt surreal.


Even gold can leave scars.

Somewhere, may we meet again as stars.