Pearse first published literary work is dj vu thrown in the vitamix. It is full of plotless innards, of erotic guts, presented to the reader in a pink bubble wrap envelope. It a sticky slur of memories asking to be peeled apart. The sweet breads aren preserved and instead digress to a glop of goo, glistening in the sun, waiting for desire to set in like the heat rising on summer pavement. There nothing to it but maybe a leaking and thickening of disembodiment, and death. Combining found and manipulated images, Pearse book leads through slow, meandering vignettes. It a thriller with no discernible plot save fear and pheromone.