Her man gone, missing in action. She is now a woman on her own. She rewinds the film in the white room of amnesia. Shirley Temple Hell orbits her sphere. She, as Ophelia in despair resurfacing from the depths, wanders the city like a tragic actress in transition. Hers is a theater staged on barren streets alongside moonlit rivers. Dormant within her is her childhood taboo and the shame. She with her love of pain, inked with lust flower tattoos. Her pleasures become reckless games with unsafe humans. High stakes subterfuge with no happy endings. Hers is a feral hunger for give-and-take tortures, for those addictions that men love hard within her. Her gestures and facial expressions she rehearses each one in mirror improvisations, synchronized with monologues devised from sonnets gone to seed. Each word she utters demonic with poisonous breath becomes an erotic sign exposed to the elements, interpreted at your own risk. Each nightmare mask she wears concealed is cracked posthuman at the edge of Penumbra. There she, by mere chance, locates his detachment alongside an abandoned railway station. Hand in skeletal hand they ascend through a portal gaseous, returning once more to the scene of the crime left in abeyance.