The light is the bruised purple of a fading bruise, caught in the dust of a room with no exits. The static from the dead television is a thick silence, a blanket of sound made of old hymns. The house breathes in the dark, a slow expansion and contraction of peeling wallpaper and creaking joists. You are a watermark on the floor, a shape the shadows remember. There is no outside. Only the long hum of the highway, a prayer for the road that never stops, waiting to let you fade into the grain of the film.