As time went back to two hundred, to get on Mark Twain's phone, the drunkard, saying what I couldn't understand, poured whiskey into the flowerpot. In the light of the holy light, the great reindeer antlers of the small bar made the sound of tractor horns, the large turntable of the turning train hall, the cowboy pulled his gun slowly, a mushroom appeared in the barrel, and the wild grass was scattered with the long-simmering sun in the post office.