In the most nondescript fragrance of terror and heart-cut desolance, I stare as leathered and worn wings sprout from her shoulder blades. They, dry as a bone and chipped from air storms, extend in displaced film chopped. chopped. chopped. chopped. chopped. She looks into me and I transform to granite. In this stone life, I am made intimately aware with every buzz of bee and filtering of light. The room is dark and the elephant men congregate in their necrotic chants and their perverse logic. A picnic, they say! The blanket is spread across the grass, the elephant men move like wires to be nourished by their mother food. “You do not care about me.” This isn’t true, please remove me from this place, God. “You do not love me.” I hate you, can you not see that I have? I hate those eyes that are so black they are deranged and speak more than your mouth. She hyperventilates in stone. Please calm a bit. “We have to talk,” she says. One wing curls across to her back. It hides the side of her face. Through the other eye she stares still. “We have to talk.” Bells are ringing in every fucking alcove, and delusions evade the focus of my eye but here, and there, and there they are! Hello, trunks, hello tusks! Hello ears! “We have to talk,” she says to me.