Isaac Lythgoe

... sofa sinking, this is cut future-modern domestic, in all
it’s sterile, life spilling from the computer, lapping the rug,
textures, dirt. The room is bright - washed out, there’s
the heat from the sun, but no tan, the glass takes care of
that.

Again another twisting the tale, act in the play; kitchen sink moments, pouring down the plug hole. This is our
experience hovering there between states in the swanky
pad, stuck between tiers; us dead talking love.