I miss the corridors. I miss the steam curling from under glass. The lights that don’t illuminate.
(Itai Erdal rhapsodises on the beauty of the fresnel lamp: 30%, 20%, 10%, 5%… His mother’s dying days; electricity’s last gasp; sunset abruptly.)
Fresnel lamps in the sauna? Hah. A promenade performance. You reach out a hand, as I suggested, and suddenly, you slip into…
a noclip existence
…gliding beyond the architecture, phalanxes of naked bodies riding warming slipstreams of curiosity.
I walk deliberately. We make eye contact. You wave your debit card over my contactless card reading crotch.
And you get a nice show out of it.