by Meghan Kemp-Gee Bruce Barrow On the eighth floor, the dishwasher’s groaning with desire. I wonder which sounds better, nebulae or nebulas. I wonder if there’s anything in the world less like nebulas than a drowning nuclear submarine, the last man standing, the crew all already gone, drowned or abandoned ship. Everything is bleak. Everything is an emergency. In movies, in such a situation, the lights blink sexy, copper-scented red. You have to do your duty, put all your own