As I sit and write this, I can hear the plumber in the bathroom down the hall of my rented flat, pulling up the tiles. A visitor had seen the tiles, which are cracked and breaking apart, and expressed concern that they contained asbestos: “You need to get that sorted out.” So I called the landlord, who called the plumber, who came and looked and said he did not think they were asbestos, no, but he would take them up regardless, because they had cracked. He is breaking them off the concrete one by one with a chisel. There is dust everywhere. As he works, I am googling the type of vinyl I think it is, and I am pretty sure it is asbestos. They are the original tiles, and the dates match up, and they look the same. They seem brittle in the way that a dangerous thing might be. My throat itches. The more pictures I see, the worse it feels. I hold my breath. I open a window. I swallow heavily. The sensation is not dissimilar to how I feel when I look at the work of Lenny and the Primitivist. Just Lenny and the Primitivist. I want to say it is abject, this feeling, but that wouldn’t be right. The abject is matter out of place, and this seems to me the opposite—something too much in its place. Too close. Of course, harmful particles are not supposed to exist in your lungs, but the fact that I can summon the feeling almost immediately by looking at an image would suggest otherwise. Maybe uncanny is the word I want.