There was a collection of wrists at the doctor. We saw an elephant there. I was a dead painting inside the elephant, and you and I were going shopping. The wrists were in the room where the records are burning. They cannot talk. A dentist is their puppet. When he touches teeth, the moon rings like a telephone that I answer. And this is the sound I make. It’s the sound of your name. It’s that far sound of ways that cannot be as you became them. We never made it to the store. Inside the elephant, we perished, and began to dream. The records were exchanging data at a rate that any observer would understand as furious. Distant stars flared and turned into cartoons about war, or ducks. He touches the teeth, and they cannot talk, but they ring like the telephone you and I will answer now. It’s the sound of your name. The moment of your birth. A collection of doctors at the wrists. Like a bracelet of demons tracing floral tatoos in the air near the astral storms of the original fountain. And the elephant came to life, and had a pet. We called it ‘The records are burning’. No one knew exactly what it looked like, but that dentist could fix up a tooth nearly as big as any store you could mention. Or even a collection of stores. Like the prefiguration of endless war. Oh, yes. The pet.