Once, when I was very small, my grandfather had told me about bogs – the deep ones that kept hold of you, no matter how you fought. The ones that held on to corpses for centuries, keeping them whole in defiance of time. The strange lights that might lead you into them. The Buzzer could be immortal. It would live for ever, with me trapped inside it. Perhaps it would feel my last desperate flutters. I was a moth inside a jar, unheard by the walls I could never escape. I was a body lost to the earth, and I would not have the mercy of death as I decayed. I wondered what would vanish first: memory,
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