We don’t know their names or their faces. They are gathered in ruined houses, in water-damaged pictures. They are not your gods, your hypocrisy, your chastity. Who are you anyway. Theirs is not your glitter. It is not their stars that encircle your cities where cold and evil bastards are building something hungry. Their names are very different. New uses for gravity. New methods for breaking glass, for scraping our histories into your stars and walls. We are living in the wrong apocalypse.