This evening David is sitting with his knees uncomfortably close together. His arms hang down too low below his seat. His belly is full of fish. Like a dolphin. Margaret's fingers are dancing on the neck of a fiddle. Moisture gathers on glasses. There must be a way to harvest the water gathered in rings around bar glasses; Saturday nights ought to be productive. Richard and the German are arguing over what should have been the proper sequencing of songs on the White Album. They might as well debate whether the Knight's Tale should have been first, and the Miller's Tale removed.
Language has been slowly leaking out of the atmosphere, leaving the air saturated with undirected thought. Rendering even the most mundane issues ineffable at times. The process of doing one's laundry may seem a purely spiritual and mystical enterprise. When you attempt to quantify detergent, it loses its magic.
There are no words left to express routine, god, the morning...
Between the morning and the evening, there is a discrepancy in identity. Should a man prefer to stay at home and live in memory, or to wander the streets drinking and shouting. There is not such a distinction between the two as one might imagine.
David buys something fruity for Margaret. Her sister might be coming soon.
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