There was a motion leading up to a point qualified by a statement wrapped up in a rhetorical bouquet. I feverishly sipped my coffee. A rebuttal announced, predicated upon an insightful indictment of a redolent clause whose fragrance was weeping. Too much cream, not enough sugar. They eventually congratulated each other on their mutual and successful investments although the decor contradicted their resolution (it was far to pretentious). Wound up, nowhere to go, fueled, no work. In one week I would do something possibly, get up and go begotten secured sedated. To break, to find work that actually corresponded to my education, on the bus for a trip, to a plane to look out the window and there's the sun above the clouds shining forth its rays. The wheels going round the wings whipped and weathered. For less cream, more sugar I waited for something less melodramatic, for a plume and a slice of pineapple, written upside down on the ceiling, revved up and ready. Should the legislature stop working for the banking industry itself? Is this salmon organic? How far could I travel down the St. Lawrence on an inner-tube? What would Proust have done?

Proust would have been writing exceptional prose, building a literary legion of liaisons into a lavender scented locket locked tight; that's what he would have done but better than that, in medium and super, they're reading it and you've told no one and have nothing to say. Just pointing out on Steph's behalf that people have been murdered for less. Find the stream, pick it up again, wine and dine, wag your tongue, blow them kisses. It's like a nap, one piece at a time, moving on, moving on, moving. Towards something leisurely and light, stamped, approved, positioned. For dessert there's chocolate mousse. Predictable, pocketed, pristine. The artistic pickpocket steals your wallet and then finds a way to return it cashless by the end of the hour. Don't know why she or he does this. Can't figure it out.