Death surrounds us with blatant arms. br A sanitation worker dies and no one br cares, but banshee phones striking at midnight, br br summoning the equally unknown people br to altars of rancor and resignation. br What do they do but recognize a human br br in the grip of edgy, illegible lives, br the ritualistic mouthing of platitudes, br cold and incurable as dry, winter snow? br br Bleak living room. Soon the owner won't live br in the area for living, the area's dark aria - br a moment of meth, mirth and minions. br br Take that bystreet to oblivion, br to namelessness, to fingers on hardware, br to the antinome of more pure breaths.