Gold records on the wall and the fine print on the floor below.
A band of kids in leather jackets signing their first contract. It starts at the desk and does not stop at the desk, spilling off the edge, down the staircase, out the door, and presumably into the parking lot. The executive sits back with his hands together. He has read this document. Nobody with a skull tattoo and a first single reads the part about perpetuity. The gold records behind him belong to whoever signed the last scroll, and they are still hanging there, which is more than the artist can say.