the paper flats give way to rows upon rows of mundane eclectic lives. in one room the bulbous head spreads its legs coyly around a battery and gurgles, a dry cell tickles and – by explosion – ceases the charge of being to columns of transatlantic pocks. lights topple in chains, gears cog and the cuckoo celebrates the hour by ejaculating over the harbour front. The kitchen breadboard is caressed, the draperies are rearranged, and the ticker tape counter above the door creaks forward by one.