In the whistlers’ room, no words gofrom face to faceThe mouths look goodbut every throat is bandaged. They manage,whistling through their neck straws, happythe way child-twins who speak invented words areuntil every communicative sound shrivelsin the super-heated air outside their circle. Around thisartificial apparatus was built an epithelial pouch: threeskin-flaps reflected and sutured over the middle raw surfaceoutwards, flaps accurately designed beforehand in tinfoil. •F saw the eyes open—It was too much to imagine,there being a soul in thatand he couldn’t name him. •Without a name there’s noentityto hold against its own cells’multiple dividings past itself,there being nothingof what we started asmaterially.