Wolfgang picks up the pestle from the floor and rinses it off in the sink. The place used to be a bakery, they think, maybe a restaurant, which is nice, though most of the equipment was gutted long ago. They shake their head. The last thing they want is to talk about this, it's horrible enough, their identity crisis is much more comfortable carefully compartmentalised somewhere they don't have to deal with it. Every time they approach it they want to tear off their skin and eject what's left into space.