On one occasion - indicative even to itself - it was in a car being driven by the sister of its thing (the ruin). It was night, on a motorway. The journey took several hours.
During the previous night, Christmas Eve, it had followed its usual course into fanatically prolonged artificial insomnia. It had spent the time devoted to futile 'writing' practices - it still pretended to be 'getting somewhere' and was buoyant with ardent purpose, but that is another story (an intolerably intricate and pointless one). It was accompanied to the early hours by a repetitive refrain 'from next door' - a mediocre but plausible rock song whose insistent lyric circled around the words: "Going to hell."
It knew these words were for it, and laughed idiotically. "They must really love the new CD they got for Christmas," it thought, equally idiotically.
In the car it listened to the radio for the whole journey. Each song was different, the genres varied, the quality seemingly above average, the themes tending to the morbid.
"This is a cool radio station," it said to its sister.
"The radio isn't on," its sister replied, concerned.
Vauung learnt that the ruin's unconscious contained an entire pop industry.
The ruin learnt that it had arrived, somewhere on the motorway.