The occupant goes outside. The occupant is wearing glacier glasses with side shields. The occupant has said to a friend: "Try it, it’s literally a filter between you and the world." One song plays on repeat in the headphones. The occupant feels shabby, old, not really anything.

The occupant goes through all their clothes and ends up with a black polo shirt, black baggy trousers, and a grey knit that they wore almost every day for five years. They put on a wide leather belt, which looks a little like a weightlifting belt. Hair up. The occupant says to themselves: "Hey babe."

The occupant is just their body and the occupant is everything else. The occupant’s cells, interests, and relationships are slowly being replaced by others. The occupant is a cloud of gas or a big, tightly squeezed lump, in which all the thoughts, the norms, everything that has affected them, everything they have eaten and consumed, has made them huge or pressed them smaller.

As a child, the occupant wore nothing but pink. They had long blond hair. They sat on the floor and arranged a deck of cards in order of beauty. They loved gold, and extracted perfume from rose petals. One day they cut their hair short and started wearing only a dark blue tracksuit with a stone-washed denim jacket.

The occupant waits for a lover to cross the boundary of the bridge like a werewolf in a monster romance, like a blue alien with two vulvas, a vampire who is old and soft.