This rambling, florid piece has many bits of interest to work out.
I’m four stories below in a room full of boxes and dead bugs. There’s a bare lightbulb hanging over my head, and a staircases that go up to locked doors throughout the room. Through the nearest concrete wall I am hearing what is certainly Brian Eno’s Baby’s on Fire. I’ve gone out in the tunnel to investigate and find that the room on one side of me is shielded by a huge metal door with radiation warnings all over it, and on the other side is a door with a handwritten sign saying “secure area - unauthorized staff attempting to enter will be terminated immediately.” I just created a database entry for something called “Young Virgin Auto-Sodomized by her Own Chastity.” Baby is on fire, indeed.