Open with found footage of Tunguska, that thing we forgot, and then, the slow dissolve, Primorye, into beach another Great Dying, but calm, dark Chelyabinsk splintering the sea. This is the outer edge of things, and this, Kamchatka, disembodied and unfolding, telling us to fall in love, make babies. A first mistake, like Whitehorse and the rest: legacy waste, pandemic, arctic thaw. And the bees, Oumuamua, are involved somehow with Starlink, the ISS and space debris, seeding the gone exosphere like Chicxulub.

A windowsill waits for your arrival. You’ll be there, holding a piece of coffee, holding space but only later, leaning into it, forehead pressed against glass braided with raindrops agitating slantwise across your translucent reflection. And within this, the pentimento of another foreign, familiar skyline, another city with its distant smokestacks, still pillars of smoke braided through with hair. The imperceptible declension of an aeroplane furrows your brow, belated ventriloquy of sound grasping at braids of contrail, a bridge linking cheekbone to cheekbone, freckles of traffic, unblinking sea-glitter, the vitreous rainshine of an eye. The freighted bay is still as a postcard, ships dead on arrival, harbour cranes mounting the smog-line to pin horizons of high-rises to their billboards. There are dead zones there, too, concrete islands, encampments, colour-faded tents and tepees far below your neighbour’s yellow window crosshatched with the circuitry of illicit connections and yesterday’s disembodied laundry. A fly-over ends abruptly, carved in space, hovers there, just like home. All this reeks of the wild’s extinction, and ours. Mumbai’s urban leopards sunning themselves on solar cells, the chacma lurking amid satellites, kamikaze crows dive-bombing the windfarm.