The phone is ringing, the people rush in the door. They all come in and hem and haw at me, slam their money down at the counter. They have come to the trough. A perfumed lady salivates on the glass, her child runs screaming through the dining room with sticky privileged fingers. A large man walks through the door, he seems to be made of stone. I am whizzing and whirring, inside my statues are alive and moving. don’t misunderstand me, I am not disgusted by their wealth. I am disgusted by their spirit, I can see it burning through their skin.