One of the Fat Lady’s care organs has been cut and hanged. The display of her visceral wound echoes a broken heart, a broken vital muscle. Metal braces hold the giant’s aperture up in space, it looks like a hunting trophy, like the head of a buffalo hanged on a wall of a hunter’s living room. I can still hear the organ’s pulse and the noise of digestion fil the room beyond the red crusty insides. We enter the metal structure, the connective trauma tissue calls for touch, and as a moth to a flame, we orbit inside the vibrant muscle, wondering for a view from within.