The homunculus was a thin, flat, disproportionate thing that was too smooth, too round, and seemingly forever dissatisfied with its own ludicrous appearance. The first time I ever laid eyes on it, I had just arrived at my tech job, fresh from a stay of extended medical leave, mind already ablaze with the problems of yesterday’s virtual meetings. A semicircle of young and middle-aged colleagues surrounded and watched in hushed excitement as the thing changed. What I initially recognised as an absent man sporting a brownish complexion was moments later a shaved white girl. Then someone considerably older. Then someone else. It showed no signs of stopping. Blurry, smeared features sank and melted apart, continuously forming anew. Faces were perceivable,…

19:00 Evening at the McManus estate – a postmodern building with large glass windows. The sun is setting and your mother and father are arguing silently in the kitchen. Their mouths open and close, but there is no sound. None but the wind. The couple bicker as they orbit around a fairly nice-looking joint kitchen and garden space. They’re cleaning it up, making it look better, squabbling over what goes where and when. Your mother was always told to marry someone who complimented her extremes, but in some respects, her and her husband’s sensibilities are frustratingly similar. Infectious OCD is one of them. Still, they know their limits with arguments. She shouts a little too loud, or knocks something over,…