A dark house in the middle of a middle-sized suburb looks alone, though it is surrounded by a vast grid of other houses only slightly different than itself. Inside, through a front hall, to the left, down a small flight of stairs, to the left again, down another flight, into a large finished basement den, a phosphorescent pale blue old man watches a big screen tv. He would normally be in bed before midnight, but a movie channel is showing a von Stroheim film, and he wants to tape it because his old copy is damaged. He's not quite watching the film: he's just making sure it tapes correctly. Clara is sitting beside him. Greta is dead. (Years ago he had named his cats after famous actresses from the 20's).