No context. Boy’s voice. Delicate polite bell, ringing. Seemingly fills all sight and sound. No taste, no smell, no touch. The voice is saying wake up, listen. Look at me, look at this voice. Please, it pleads endearingly, concentrate. Good. Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t do, say or think anything. Just listen, look at my voice. This is the schedule. First I tell you who you are and what happened to you because I know you don’t clearly remember. That’ll help, won’t it? We’ll be able to do big talks together. Second, you teach me painting like you promised. Third. I’ll tell you later. You’ll see. And that delicate bell sang out a sound clear as a clear innocent smile, soaring its echo into the contextless air for the length of a seemingly endless moment’s breath. Listen. You are Fishface. That is your name. You feel as old and as familiar as it is old and familiar to you. Face in the mirror. Self-image is an object. Your other name is Fuckface. They can be combined in either of two ways, Fuckface Fishface or Fishface Fuckface. You’re a boxmaker and I am a monkey. You see me as a boy, which in fact I am. An extraordinary boy. Don’t you think? No! No! don’t think, just listen. Look at my voice. This bell singing.