Soft landing. Brain emptied. Waiting for filler. Assuming disguise. Growing up Los Angeles, in the town of Silverlake. Hopping on the plane to Stockholm one frigid December afternoon. City of dormant snowy dreams. Anxiety roaming. Sniffing the horizon. Longing for the empty. I arrange for a cottage squeezed in the center of downtown. A rustic Disneyland of two stories. Vinyl grass luxuriates the facade. The neighborhood’ s trafficked by druggies, the landlady warns. The purr of the air heater implanted in the frontal lobe keeps my temperature moderate. from pale man in a new Stingray by Sam Samore written for the book Brand new animals/we will never be so close again.