I hope you remembered your gas mask.


My great-great-grandmother’s portrait hung in the university up until the Revolution. By then, the truth of their romance had been reduced to a simple fairy tale. And, while Cinderella and her prince did live happily ever after, the point, gentlemen, is that they lived.

Eve is graceful, luminous and impeccably dressed. She wears western boots and hats, and vintage white denim jackets with matching slim jeans. Her hair is pale blonde, her skin nearly translucent white, and her lips often colored deep red with lipstick. Several thousand years older than Adam, Eve possesses an exuberant appreciation for eternal consciousness. She believes their immortality is a great gift not to be squandered and that life, though precarious and fragile, is too far precious to be wasted.

The man in the chair is MARWOOD. Twenty-five years old. Milk white with insomnia. Glasses like Lennon’s and a sweet face behind them. Seventy-five per cent good looks and the rest is anxiety. This is a long haul with unspecified destination. Only thing certain is there are still hours to go. Hours and hours have stagnated in here. Drifting in cigarette smoke and settling with the dust.