One of my girlfriends liked her lava lamp, but it was in Russia. I discovered that the necessary attribute of enjoyment a lava lamp is America beyond one’s window.

It is safe to say that the prominence of the lava lamps in the American culture—the floor is lava—did not occur to me before. But now with a lava lamp, I understand that time never flies and the matter is easily transformed into something it has never been.

There are fetuses of homunculi inside of it. But when the lamp is turned off, instead of screaming pink the “lava" or, better yet, the magma turns dark violet. From a cheerful adornment of the room, the cooling lamp is momentarily transformed into a sinister presence.