Constant rain, constant drizzle, heading down tiny corridors between buildings, inverted red triangles on the windows showing the way of decent. A scene where we sit in a new restaurant on the second floor of a building that has seemingly always been there, interior painstakingly designed to look decidedly postwar. Deliberately uncomfortable, staff girls wearing pink Crocs to offset the difference. Fake dirt, fake nostalgia. This used to be a row of offices where agents of the Government of Darkness faked work and toil and did much more harm that way than if they had set out for something deliberate. Their children fated to recreate half century loops of history they know nothing about save the consistency of food and drink preparation. Jetlag highballs and feeling old sitting next to fresh recruits in identical while button down shirts and black slacks. They start to smoke, not from tobacco, but from the peak friction of things inside that can no longer be contained because they’d stopped long enough to sit. And then I run.