Every time Marc goes to the market in the lower reaches of his building he comes back annoyed by people trying to sell him products they label “organic” or “natural.” I, madam, will take the artificial option. Do I look like a country peasant? Don’t you know what synthesis is? Since he does not own a washing machine, once a week he takes his clothes a few streets away to a laundromat called Pet Shop Boys. The owner, a gay man in his thirties who inherited the business, has had the group’s music on constant rotation since the day his parents passed away. He always greets Marc with the same wave of the hand and says he’s ordered some new machines, super-powerful, super-cheap, made somewhere in the East—he always forgets the country’s name. Marc watches the drum go around as he waits, and it surprises him every time to think that the thing spinning around in there is nothing less than his own solidified skin. But today he has come to the decision that this mixture of skins means the destruction of the Theory of Sets, the defeat of the organs of a body.