Judy Poovey is expressionism. Vivid, grand strokes of mottled colors—red brushing against blue in neon, shapes changing their forms to the whim of round white pills. She's insane, that's why she's the sanest. Jagged rhythm of the brush, painfully disturbing flashes—that's all Judy, that's the party she drags you into.

Greek classes were your passion; mystery, a riddle you felt you must solve. Marble statues, flawless faces, and fancy phrases, a touch to the gods themselves, their faces in the rippling crimson liquid. Wine tastes like luxury, like a rehearsed, well-known poem. Madness. Madness tastes like a sweet-sour pomegranate; Hades had given it to Persephone once in the murky past. You, like her, linger there despite rationality. Among sacred eagles, owls, and deer—Athena heaves a disappointed sigh.

When the world grumbles and wobbles (a rickety pattern of treacherous decisions), you stumble into her room. Judy is always there, unaware of your ordeals; she's halcyon, content with her drawer full of hallucinations and her nails painted red. You deceive yourself yet again, playing fugitive; you run—Judy saunters placidly where life leads her. Deities are contemptuous; she's amiable. You're destitute—she's everything else.

"Yeah, girl, I know," she says in your ear, and music swallows her every breath. "Bunny's death..."

The diaphanous weight of unawareness. That's the thing about her; she doesn't need to know the details, the truth—she doesn't care. She does know what you need—elopement, escape, the bliss of forgetting.

Her fingers squeeze your jaw, tilting it back. Her lipstick colors your pale lips; sighing deeply, you swallow the pill. The universe will boom soon, will give birth to daunting solar systems and black holes. But for now, a supernova explodes—its remains stab your heart. Escapism.

"There you go," she laughs, and with a wily, kindhearted touch, runs her thumb over your chin. "Come on, let's dance. You could die from mourning."