Impactual is the word for what a strike leaves behind. Three meters of it. The beast fills the left half — purple and black, a red eye set in a dark ring like a planet caught in its socket, a mouth of white zigzag teeth running back along the jaw, a yellow slab in the chest where the ribs would be. The blue panel behind it is scaffolding, or a window, or the last piece of sky with any order left in it. At center the mountain goes up. The eruption is not painted so much as written: orange and yellow scribble thrown over the black cone in the same hand that writes everything else on this canvas, so the catastrophe arrives in the same language as the notes in the margin. To the right the register changes. DIE, DIE, DIE runs down the dark in chalky capitals, and just past it the moon is up, ringed in warm pink, with a small spectacled creature perched on a wire beneath it like it has been waiting there all night. Below, three green growers with wide grinning mouths stand in the pink and green field, entirely unbothered. Painted flat, outdoors, in the same run as A Pack of Lips. The impact is real and the grinning is real and the painting refuses to rank them.