I’m staying overnight in a motel when it waltzes in through the door. Coffee mug eyes and skin like pins, nudging the floor until its way is made. I can see its face. It’s just a man, but the air around him is wrong. It’s giving me that feeling, like an old stop motion picture, Harryhausen’s finest, and you like it but it’s not real, not there. Now I don’t like it because the reverse is upon me.

Trigger Warning: suicide