A man cuts his finger on his tooth as he brushes his teeth. From the jagged laceration, microscopic men fall. They punch each other, knocking off their tiny fedoras. As they plummet into the sink, some are killed on impact. Others drown in frothy, minty spittle. And still others sulk around the drain despondent because Jessica has put them in the friend-zone. A speck of toothpaste makes the dolorous wound sing.

In the candle licked dusk, naked Colin Farrell calls for his cat. “Good kitty, good puss, puss, puss.” He feels his fullness coursing through his body with a pronounced lilt. It oozes out of his pores, each drop of sweat containing a homunculus. Each falls to the tile floor and gains its feet. Tiny hands wipe amniotic fluid from muscular assess. Their tiny voices join Collin’s. “Good kitty, good, puss, puss, puss.” They feel their fullness coursing through their bodies with a pronounced lilt. It oozes out of their pores, each drop of sweat containing a smaller homunculus. Each falls to the floor and joins the search until desire is spent and the cat is abandoned.