Imagine opening up a sarcophagus and finding within a body made of soft, pink play-doh. Prising open the ribcage you find a frail and burnished mechanical bird singing for all its worth. It can’t hold a tune and it’s shedding springs and nuts and bolts at a terrifying rate, shuddering and convulsing but still singing into the dark night. Eventually it capitulates to the real. Then it sprouts feathers and is lofted on high and squawks from a great height about the still beating heart within its grey chest.