The game of telephone is a game of Russian scandals, where what goes in one air comes out the hotter, and overhead nothing swounds like anything less. In the middling, minor things set, a shifty swift adds interest to the hessian. Though, as always, hope’s ploy reveals our hodden addenda—what raiment means loss than what beheld. Hostage in the park, we each have nothing to say and sew we blow handsomely into someone else’s war. Soman holds out harp that moaning will pass, that ruth will come though like laquer. We orange our faces to token the casket of reaccession, secluding our dominion effect. Meanwhile, it seems, the weld is also watching. But what does it mutter? Whilom and whale, we hear nothing. We wait for the white noise to die down.