It’s New York Fashion Week, and there is a frenzy backstage as models are worked into their dresses and mob the assembled engineers for instructions of how to operate the technology that magically transforms a subtle gesture into a glowing garment suggestive of the bioluminescence of jellyfish. I know there’s not enough time for them to do their work. Almost instinctively, I find the designer and bargain for 20 more minutes.

While I wonder to myself how I got here, backstage at a runway show, I also know I am witnessing what may be the harbinger of how a fourth industrial revolution is set to change fashion, resulting in a new materiality of computation that will transform a certain slice of fashion designers into the “developers” of a whole new category of clothing. By driving new partnerships in tools, materials and technologies, this revolution has the potential to dramatically reshape how we produce fashion at a scale not seen since the invention of the jacquard loom.

The jacquard loom, as it happens, inspired the earliest computers. Ever since, textile development and technology have been on an interwoven path — sometimes more loosely knit, but becoming increasingly tighter in the last five years. Around that time, my colleagues and I embarked on a project in our labs to look at “fashion tech,” which at the time was a fringe term. These were pioneers daring to — sometimes literally — weave together technology and clothing to drive new ways of thinking about the “shape” of computation. But as we looked around the fashion industry, it became clear that designers lacked the tools to harness the potential of new technologies.

For a start, all facets of technology needed to be more malleable. Batteries, processors and sensors, in particular, had to evolve from being bulky and rigid to being softer, flexible and stretchable. Thus, I began to champion “Puck [rigid], Patch [flexible], Apparel [integrated],” an internal mantra to describe what I felt would be the material transformations of sensing and computation.

As our technologies have steadily become smaller, faster and more energy efficient — a progression known in the tech industry as Moore’s Law — we’ve gone on to launch a computer the size of a postage stamp and worked with a fashion tech designer to demonstrate its capabilities. In this case we were able to show dresses that were generated not just from sketches and traditional materials, but forward-looking tools (body scans and Computer Assisted Design renderings) and materials (in this case, 3-D printed nylon). At the same time, we integrated a variety of sensors (proximity, brain-wave activity, heart-rate, etc.) that allowed the garments themselves to sense and communicate in ways that showed how fashion — inspired in part by biology — might become the interface between people and the world around them.

Eventually, a meeting between Intel and the CFDA lent support to the idea that if technology could fit more seamlessly into designs, then it would be more valuable to fashion designers. The realisation helped birth the Intel Curie module, which has since made its way down the catwalk, embedded into a slew of designs that could help wearers adapt, interpret and respond to the world around them, for example, by “sensing” adrenaline or allowing subtle gestures to illuminate a garment.

As the relationship between fashion and technology continues to evolve, we will need to reimagine research and development, supply chains, business models and more. But perhaps more than anything, as fashion and technology merge, we must embrace a new strand of collaborative transdisciplinary design expertise and integrate software, sensors, processors and synthetic and biological materials into a designer’s tool kit.

Technology will inform the warp and weft of the fabric of fashion’s future. This will trigger discussions not just about fashion as an increasingly literal interface between people, our biology and the world around us, but also about the implications that data will generate for access, health, privacy and self-expression as we look ahead. We are indeed on the precipice of a fourth industrial revolution.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses

Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall *****-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.

"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.

That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses

I held up that grand quilt in my tiny hands, thoughts rushing past my mind.

That denim piece splattered with red paint,
ah, remember when you wore that for the first time as you picked carrots with Dad?

That cotton piece filled with a vibrant orange,
how could you forget? That was the dress you wore to your first ever play recital.

That baby pink rayon piece,
you wore that on the first day of high school, you could not forget.

That grey wool piece,
that was your Christmas present, and you wore it near the fire. You spilled hot coco on it.

That rare purple leather,
that is too important to forget. Remember, it was the jacket you wore on you first date.

That blue flannel piece,
you loved that one. You wore it all the time, ever since the first time you wore it when you won “best speaker” at a school competition.

That brown cupro piece,
you wore that to your mother's birthday, the one where she got promoted to L.A.

That green polyester piece,
never can forget, could you? That was the shirt you wore when Dad and Mom divorced.  

That white lyocell piece,
you wore it at your graduation party, and your whole family was there.

That barkcloth piece,
it was a day to remember, you united with you brother once again in that dress.

That calico piece,
you wore that to the hospital when Granddad got a heart attack.

That black and white damask piece,
that was so beautiful, so you kept it for your dinner. Which you hadn't realized was your engagement dinner with your boyfriend.

That red gingham piece,
wow, that was the time you met your dad's girlfriend. And Mom had not moved on.

That black lace piece,
a day never to forget. It was the funeral of your Granddad’s, and that was the dress you wore.

That grey gauze piece,
it was the shawl you wore when you visited your grandma, and found out she was ill of depression.

That amazing white gazar piece,
a memorable day. It was the dress you wore to you wedding.

That turquoise silk piece,
too soon after your wedding. It was the part of the purse you took to your Grandma's funeral. *

That white and blue jacquard fabric,
that was the fabric you had for your curtains, when you moved into your own house.

That leopard print intarsia piece,
it was an amazing day. Your mother visited you the first time in your new home. The both of you cried with the rain pouring outside. Nothing could have ruined that beautiful moment together, united.

That satin cobalt blue piece,
that dress you wore to the dinner with your parents and husband. Only to later realize that you brother had met with an accident.

That exotic lantana piece,
you remember, don't you? You wore that dress when you met your brother days later, severely hurt.

That red lace piece,
you went to London with your husband wearing that. You were so excited.

That madras piece,
it came from that cushion out of the four your husband bought you.

That cream organdy piece,
your mother had found it in her closet, a dress from her mother's, and wanted to give it to you.

That deep purple paisley piece,
you wore that on the day your mother died.*

And like that, all the thoughts came back to me. All the pieces of my past, fit in together. But it never made sense – that was how my life worked. And there were more pieces, more parts, to fit together, until my life was spread out in front of me. Like a patched quilt.

Fashion rarely looks to the Brit awards for style inspiration but somehow fashion finds its way, in dribs and drabs, to its red carpet. These awards are the unwanted stepchild of the red carpet and generally, this means it’s a bric-a-brac of high-end and high street looks. For every Rihanna in couture you have a Little Mix in Asos.

Such is life, though, and there were legitimate trends, aside from the James Bay/Kylie double hatter. First, in the spirit of Angelina Jolie’s 2012 viral, there was a Right Leg – as flashed by model Lily Donaldson and singer Lana Del Rey. Nightwear came in a rather lavish Miss Havisham-esque form via Florence Welch (cream slip, eiderdown wrap, bed-hair) and Rihanna (a lilac slipdress covered with seashell patterns), and which unexpectedly preceded Alexander McQueen’s autumn/winter 2016 collection. Finally, there was a definite nod to The Wizard of Oz’s Emerald City via Jess Glynn’s sparkling green jacquard suit, Kylie’s backless heels and Jack Garratt’s toned down double-breasted suit.

There were the half-successes, too: Adele’s cascading liver-red dress and matching lipstick was grownup, but compared to her memorable 2013 Valentino hit at the Grammy’s, it felt par-cooked. Singer Charli XCX has been a frow regular at this year’s London fashion week, so she went predictably designer in pale green Vivienne Westwood. But she was let down with her slicked-back hair, a styling addendum that somehow overegged the overall effect. She also looked stiff and uneasy, probably because, at 23, she was too young to pull it off.

The menswear was far more experimental. To wit: Labrinth in a blue and pink orchid-print suit which, unaccessorised, had just enough humour to work (it looked like a box of Cadburys Roses). Mark Ronson did his usual trick of pepping a cleanly cut suit with the odd flourish. This time it was a monochrome dogstooth suit covered with a static print. Even JLS’s Marvin Humes, in a Yves Saint Laurent bomber jacket, epitomised the modern man. And what Carl Barât lacked in pizzazz he made up for by wearing a Hedi Slimane suit (although less said about the James Bay hat, the better).

The misses, of course, were plentiful. The mullet dress is the trend that refuses to die (see Cheryl Fernandez-Versini and half of Little Mix in various synthetic horrors). Alexa Chung rarely puts a brogue wrong, but here in a velvet bustier dress, was fairly forgettable (lesson: don’t step out of your style lane). Then, of course, there was Keith Lemon, who pillaged the misses of awards seasons gone (the Pharrell hat, the pseudo-Gucci blazer … everything really). What did you expect from Keith Lemon? The Brits then: a series of blind taste tests on the red carpet, none of which gets full marks.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

Femenina, pero sin excesos,
que fluya la luz de sus ojos
pero sin apagar los neones
de MONSANTO, luz biodegradable
pero agradable al tacto.
Libre y Natural, como un sombrero.
Mezcla sutil de lana y jacquard.
Silueta relajada a la altura del *****
como una virgen romana,
y un concierto de colores húmedos
según va cayendo la tarde
Muy casual a partir de los labios
y un lindo ABCdario  entre las piernas.
Transmisión sin pausa, dejando un eco
al volver a casa, sin caer en brazos
de una sonrisa armada hasta los dientes.
El color blanco es su aliado
y los pájaros pintados en el jardín
de sus sueños, en las manos, la imprescindible
lencería  de una imaginación sin prisas,
y la siempre impredecible pasión
en su fresquito pequeño, aroma a alba
con un poco de opio en los cristales.
Un look de muerte para terminar
con el ideal de hombre, todo sin dejar de ofrecer
la cara oculta de su luna, un poco descabellada
al caminar por el Mercado
dejando claro que su hogar no se marchita.
El éxito como una póliza de seguros
guardado a la altura de su láctea paradoja.
Y de vez en vez mostrar la plantación de flores
cultivadas por la maniquí secreta
que en ASIA o en los fiordos del alma, arde.
Sin dejar oír nunca un si te quiero
que no sea el fru fru de su trastienda,
seda y sede de coral *****, y una navajita
para degollar pecado como peces
sin dejar de ser sofisticada con los dedos
y una delicadez a prueba de balas.

Es lo que se va llevar en las Avenidas de este Otoño.
Y un cielo en rama para amar un poco.

Imagine good enough for once
and all we do may do good.

Corny, Provencial, San Juaquin,

come waltz with me,
my tilde, leave us oll rrroling rrs

all ye all ye outs in free, we are only one century

out of tune.

And we found a rready wrrited rreason to say

a used key is always bright.

Freedom of the press, is an abstraction frrom
freedom, per se, being in need of rights,
authoritatively apprrius osity curio

those be noise, not functing scipots, bags of wind.

we are the words that fit the pattern to the card,
for Mon Jacquard, once a soldier,
trained in close order drill,
a thread from there,

gives us software. The fruit of the sci sent to
Mon Jacquard,

words taught his fingers to fight.
There is a right fight.

It is nobody's war. Nobody fights it for you.

Come, let us imagine making peace in a cup,
until it spills,

and coats the world like Sherrwinn Williams.

I can't figure it out, but I am forever planning an escape
2. or a solution to this problem of going nowhere
3. in life you have to risk safety in order to find
4. an oasis hidden in the visions.

1. Or a solution to this problem of going nowhere
2. will in perpetuity evade your grip
3. An oasis hidden in the visions
4. of calicoed men, quilted with jacquard and eastern tapestries.

1.Will in perpetuity evade your grip
2. from your lack of complexity
3. of calicoed men, quilted with jacquard and eastern tapestries,
4. tangled between silken limbs.

1. From your lack of complexity,
2.  I can't figure it out, but I am forever planning an escape
3. tangled between silken limbs.
4.  In life you have to risk safety in order to find.

I took the short cut down to Marble Street the other day
to remind me of the cafe' where we met in May
We could of written our cute meet for the screen
just like a couple being filmed for a romantic scene...
I was wearing black n' white with my lacy jacquard tights
You were handsome wearing blue with your matching saddle shoes
That's when..
you winked at me above your book, and, then you looked away--
then I took you by surprise n' I smiled right into your eyes
and, then I looked away--
Oh, in a playful way---
That's when...
You swaggered so cooly up to me just as courteous as can be
but I pretended not to hear playing the naughty girl you see...
Yes, I was naughty I was bad cause I wanted you to chase after me ---
That's when...
I got up with my book tossing you that flirtatious look
that's when I knew I had you by the hook
because I watched the way you shook
then I reached out for your hand
I said,
I'm a woman that knows what she wants n' I won't tease n' I won't taunt
That's when you said,
I'm a man who understands, and I'll give you all the love I can,
Now we're...
taking the short cut down to Marble Street on this sunny day
and, it's been ten years in the month of May
You know, it's the little things you say
that makes me so happy you looked my way
Baby, there's no one else that brings so much happiness n' peace
you've brought joy into my life
I'm so grateful you're my wife...

That's when...
I melt right into you...

(The latter paragraphs are more persuasive than the introductory one)

Clinched by the cloture of clinkstone nebels exhorted the kerygma to truckle nebulizing egintoch nepionic nevosities once pristine now reformed by aggiornamento nidamental to furor and favor against bisontine imaginative byre by the bobstays of badigeon steeving inclemency sequacious to tantony shabracking incontinence (delegating the shakuhachi of fairer brocades for chiffon simity jaded by permissive recidivism) by pushful skalding spurriers bracing for thalassic ucalegon in abthane absterged amende dire to notitia umbels of ultraism isorithmic lest the echard immanent and prevenient over egelidated soteriology florid and variegated in the elutriation of apodictic truth (rather than crumpled deadwood davenport emotivism) that bewilders emys of lost dirigisme foundering in enthymemes against stalwart erotesis of the maieutic ambit and dominion designated for plebania above the naves skeldering for merciful pontiffs to engage the nembutsu windlass around the hadal novantique (established by hamarchy now regnant abroach of elastane prerogatives) eleutherian in nimble recourse. Sociodynamic abscissae prone to abuna trouncing conscientious acapnotic deployment of moral agastopia ahimsa predicated on soteriology renewed despite the akinesia of precedent and the alameda concatenations of tacenda hinged to ameplography wed to sophistries of psephology designated by psaphonic priority ignorant of the proairesis of liberty vouchsafed by anamorphic noogenesis abetted by sleek balustrades of anbury among assorted desmans thwarting detraque in favor of didascalic diremption of baldfaced balbriggan secularism into culminated quatorzain apotheosis regnant in supernal amaranthine energism hybridized with quietism factive to elect ratiocination even when bereaved of common lionization.

Jawhole fairleads of oppositive causes fantigued in the throes of despotism often invoke festination over fissicostation flagitated primordial flenched titrations of frith betrothed to lambrequin lurdan prisoptometry negligent of lineolated limpkins because the brunt of zaftig bronteums transmogrifies zappy junctures into zarzuela plenary because the zayat is just too hinnable in moral brehon to bend their mettle to hods holobenthic in deontology who champion hopsack qasida emphatic in qawwali derricking a deft future for the industrious dobhash of entelechy of broadened dromonds versed in opodeldoc gilded with olivaster onagers (obsequent to insidious oblations of wokism) ixiodic with newfangled irriguous bonanza rather than iopterous conflagrations of dholes indigned in inaniloquent apyrexy. The paragon for civic moralism is arrayed in a matrix of appurtenances apotropaic in sedated throes of stalwart interpunction in idoneous subservience to vulcanized mackintoshes pegged to aleatory nimonic stridulation, bolted in bedrock faith and thriving with idiochromatic genius umbrilizing hippiatric doomsters (hinnable only in specious zuche alloquy of zayat) and foiling farcical ichnology with transcendent sophianic nidor nidamental to sophrosyne spiritualism allodic to trifling secular strife histing godless hoggasters against integral hodiernal homologation.

The hordeiform consensus defalcates hotchpot zendik zenana zabaglione of scripted lycnoscopes of lycanthropy stipulated by their compital nomogeny often lorikeeting mutual laevoduction despite lapatic overhangs of scruple frowning at lazaret frostworks of drygulched fourgon forcipation of desiccated flysch falsidical brinkmanship of specious standpipes masquerading as salvation but only amounting to the **** of stulms against stanjant in sybotic quatsch quademed to profligacy despite frustraneous defaulting inertia of supercilious protanopia repugnant to our best collective enterprises. Orrery orguinnet oryx is mesothermic to osnaburg bootstraps in the overlock of hamstrung ekistics sunken by irrevocable organdie because emphatic empasm less hobbled by multicultural enallage scacchic with enthalpy gradgrinded through gingerly haqueton abducent to fondink dowitchers (whom droshky appoints preeminent) fixating on constellated faculae just to feague around with fontinal ochlesis of powellization freeboarding on deliberate dilapidation of laches laystalling crambos connumerated in tenure of the ulterior congelation of collimated pataphysics bankrolling insatiable cementum cambering with jagged jacquard bonanza for the thickets of constringed monolithic diaspora callow in coordination juddering ancillary skirmishes of boondoggle to bunting fanfare in the jubbah of aleatory jinks. The immarcesible imparidigitate ormolu quaky lest eupsychics and eurhythmics devolve into hamerkop evulsions of abaft nidor of olid aboulia in stark acropathy mandated by ulterior acyesis they fear diminishing returns of wretched adrogation tag-teamed by gammerstangs of barmcloth jarveys of jasperated emasculation aduncating cultural redundancy in the narrowcasted affiance of hamshackled aftergame cobaltiferous in aggerose vengeance against stanjant and lavolta so steep in alembication that pedestrian andragogy must drail isallobar inculcating isobath as sequacious simplicity becomes the byword of the balbriggan flautino to denature (after toiling decades in isopach verisimilitudes of slugabed fysigunkus isostasy) in the most contrary ways to ithomiid nationalism such that we resort to oriflamme conflagrations of ludic phlegmatic osmol into ****** cacotopia.

****** kymatology in the windlass of obtuse tympanies sculpted of pergola parabolaster pomace klendusic to vagary kirking the testudo bellwethers misyoked to godless mofette trutinates the nimble reedbucks pliant to oscitation equipped eagre to ecdysiast stampedes toward eclaircise because of manufactured wantage jaleos and jarabes among the ghawazis handspike repentantly for habanera pupating into moral fullness and divine nimiety isangelous in proxemic sympatric plerophory in revolutionary phoniatrics aggiornamentos vitative to every twiring turtleback taffrail may the volplane of revelation become a virgation and a vastation against rheotaxis vendible as cascading vecordy dismantled by compital grace convolved with evolved kerygma nacreous as synclastic destiny beneficiating oikonisus and holobenthic communion never a bergamask pretense for opaque scofflaw bedaggle baize nympholepsy outlasts. Allemande iceblinks of verglas saccadic idiorhythmic illaqueating implodent mortmains imbruting thorny thickets of impedimenta for expedient skullduggery coempted by blackmasters gridlocked in ineradicable jamdani often postulate in unstercorated tirades the tentation of indehiscence and the inferiae vaccimulgent in retroactive disgust by throttling ingluvies to traffic isanemone contingent on obeluses halyarding wellaway welkins of whelky crutched on alamode abasia divorced from the veteran paradigm of albescent androlepsia supplanted by annectant wellsprings of dodecafid digladiated bangtail footholds of backstay vestige transmogrified into footling forcipation vaunting cultural enallage lagotically optimized into incorrigible and ingravescent hawsehole highbinder rigmarole hindermated often by eximious sedigitation because of epiphenomenal cnicnodes many hotchpots bury in anachoric huggeries of adoptive dedans tasked with the demurrage of akinesia friendly to dentirostral vogues ever pinguefied by wanigans of wapentake by lucrative woodreeves of bobstaying at all cost.

The woonerf of nimonic stridulation calipacing casefied bickerns of sunbittern stanhope sumpters of monolithic harvested indigent outrage solfatara engenders as cathexis to naïve sondation for spodomancy of restive cladogenesis ironmaster vastation of chiffon brocades of rumchunder rhubarbs of smug cultural isanther and pathetic icterical tomfoolery of bonces of isochrone mugience projicient to glochidate presbyophrenia beziqued by briquets and berceuse mockado canque inert in yawny torporific mazut endeavors of virulent mithridatism only demassified to the recherche limitrophes of perspicacity. The afterclap of uxorious tephra mowing tamburitza grampus of gossypine vernalization of vaccimulgent minnesinger singults sintering crepitated jacana jerkinheads cuculine in scaffmaster voltinism simultaneous to vorticism is the impetus of neutrosophy chockablock with allantoid bosky stulms and stannaries replete with ivorride brackling with whorling sastruga rife with scissures seahogging finite notoriety in headlong skintles convenient to chatelaines of mazopathia aggrieved of atocia hedged in thick jawhole quagmires of skiving snallygaster vigor (the protectorate of stalwart strahl of quotidian industry of both striga and stritch in subtended immunifacience) the progenitor of indomitable suretyship swanskin undinism rackrent in dentagra yet redeemed by resurgent soteriology. In conclusion, among both chlamydate springhares and termagant gammerstangs (both monolithic iceblink orguinette abusers of oriel or oryx) one panders oxter oriflamme trapezes above varsal sterility and the other enlists the camber of architectonic bontbokian pergolas of invidious wrox subservient to widespread epilation and imperious squamation are neither the answers nor the questions mandated by this zeitgeist but (sadly) inevitably supined by the eyeservice of modern neutrosophy. We must handspike, therefore, the springboks through the acequia of nomogeny cooperative with quokkas, vangermytes, jordans, britskas and the grognards never mercenary in their heroic devotions to acipenser acropodia acuminating moral integrity to bypass adiathermancy to institute aerophane eunomia aimed at aeviternity agentive in amberjacking moral virtues from the florilegium for aggiornamento and scrupulous revival of nomothetic noogenesis pliant to persuasive ideogeny forever tantalized (even in elflock) to broaden saffron horizons and vouchsafe prosperity and equity for aborning generations predicated on aboriginal compassions.  

Addendum: With gingerly caution, I exhort anyone to read this keeping in mind that my loose figurative language could be misconstrued as menacing, militant, disrespectful or otherwise disheveled and levies no obligation upon the readership. It is an exegesis of many deep arcane truths and constative hypotheses that should be treated with latitude rather than bartered by counterfeit means to miscegenate nolitions mandating the steepest compurgation and bowdlerization of the thickets of tartarology wagering spiritual warfare against the righteous throne of demassified sophrosyne wisdom persevering beyond the thickets of boschveldt schadenfreude that compital degringolade yeuks for so insistently in rabid compagination commorient with evanescent fables destined to die in the aceldama of conscience over the brehon of moral indigence contrahent to the prerogatives of God himself my vindicator and champion who defeats the bronteum of satanic prestidigitation by vanquishing an honest oversight tethered to a marginal maeiutic clairvoyance misleading in maladroit collimations radically spayed by polyphiloprogenitive cofferdams from the dominion and domain of the righteous and the snares and wickedness of false scales of rabid codswallop cackling for a moment only to be snuffed benighted and forever cast into the deepest barathrum of oblivion. God is my vindicator and my champion and my most earnest ambitions staked on love and fortune remain preeminent in every consideration of soldiered entelechy vanguarded by peremptory cloture in spiritual warfare against petty pettifoggery of jagged cisvestism forever defeated.

Outside the house that's never ours, down-***** and foundation, the faceless one in violet jacquard slid the stone away. And he was strong, by God, for he did it with a touch light as breath, light as fingernails and not a callous revealed a trade. Exposed and streak, some long and rodent thing, large as gator, sloth-faced, skunk-haired and toothed barracuda leapt out, then paused. Flicked its wide fan tail. And looking back at me with eyes both black and brocade, it urged my eyes down, down into the pit where the young and unnamed things flickered like moons on sewage, dull but hungry. And I, in a fit begged the faceless one to unhinge the stone and roll it back, but he laughed. He laughed without mouth, without eyes, more vacant and grimace than squalor. With the stone unmoved, he lifted his hand and pointed to a window not ours, slack-paned and green. And with a flash of jacquard, I was there, in the kitchen. And you were there in the kitchen, my love, crouched native and scooping leopard frogs like water in your palms, then sliding them into a box. You said they didn't belong here, in this kitchen not ours, and you sought a relocation, down the hall, where dust settles like rain and cool clean sheets. But those other tenants, more heard than seen, slow to rents and vagrant, held the doors shut and blunt with chairs and no rattling **** gave way. And at the end of it, where a green window spilled vague shafts below, down-***** to nowhere, a faceless one in violet turned. Turned and walked away.

Outside the house that's never ours, down-***** and foundation, the faceless one in violet jacquard slid the stone away. And he was strong, by God, for he did it with a touch light as breath, light as fingernails and not a callous revealed a trade. Exposed and streak, some long and rodent thing, large as gator, sloth-faced, skunk-haired and toothed barracuda leapt out, then paused. Flicked its wide fan tail. And looking back at me with eyes both black and brocade, it urged my eyes down, down into the pit where the young and unnamed things flickered like moons on sewage, dull but hungry. And I, in a fit begged the faceless one to unhinge the stone and roll it back, but he laughed. He laughed without mouth, without eyes, more vacant and grimace than squalor. With the stone unmoved, he lifted his hand and pointed to a window not ours, slack-paned and green. And with a flash of jacquard, I was there, in the kitchen. And you were there in the kitchen, my love, crouched native and scooping leopard frogs like water in your palms, then sliding them into a box. You said they didn't belong here, in this kitchen not ours, and you sought a relocation, down the hall, where dust settles like rain and cool clean sheets. But those other tenants, more heard than seen, slow to rents and vagrant, held the doors shut and blunt with chairs and no rattling **** gave way. And at the end of it, where a green window spilled vague shafts below, a faceless one in violet turned and walked away.