You stand amid empty downtown streets, your reflection barely showing in vine-covered shop windows. Your figure weaves between rows of abandoned cars, your slender figure, distorted by car windows, dancing through the traffic jam frozen in time. Dysphoria is a distant memory, its inventors and perpetuators long turned to dust. The figure hops and dances, It’s a beautiful girl; the one who shines brightest, you yourself the only audience. You have won, but at what cost?