Charlotte keeps spinning that Lana del Ray album, telling me it’s stuck on repeat. It’s great in the same way that getting the Borg Collective to chair a symphony orchestra produces a rich emotive sound. There’s no throbbing but the pounding is relentless. It’s making my skull feel wrong, put together so that the space without the pain is causing the distress, like being headacheless, an awareness of black absence, the third degree fringes of burn victim skin on a universal scale. I beg her to make it stop but she just shrugs, throwing more nothing onto the void.