In warm-hearted houses the fireplace is always bright. And it’s always Christmas Eve, dreaming of white Christmas nights. Candles twinkle love: like stars stolen from the sky, making houses happy. Who cares about the world outside? Johnny gets good grades and Daddy gets great head. Maria raised the kids; Mommy just tucks them into bed. The TV’s on from nine to five every single day. Their water’s pure and their god is good, as long as they obey. Somewhere beneath the malls, under miles of tax returns, hidden behind a white picket fence, and masked by what they earn. Cloistered by the walls of stucco mansions and expensive cars. The foundation’s made of shit and what you have is all you are.