Eiko, female, and Koma, male, rest hungry veins over soil and feathers and straw and crawl. Walls of scorched canvas with smell of sea salt and tamari ink grow around them, behind audience. They are sweet rice paste skin and skeleton of sixty year aged fetuses. Her hand is slow motion toward yellow man who twice came inside her enough to build two babies, one at a time. As she twists, her bones crumble like campfire-seared paper. A nest of countries clasp their spines, dirt traveled across borders with invisible passports. Until mud of purchased weather wets their noiseless skin, they feast on electrically produced drink.