fig.3.02) funky pie, old as steam In all, the polite ambiguity that's underneath the blinking red sign, that's all up and down the whole length of this floor as dodder and waddle unfold into quiet chatter and cocktail peanuts. Questions shimmy along the walls and some of them smell just like toast in the morning. Where buntings aplenty perch among the tables of flowers there are cummerbunds with smart epaulets adorned by stupid men in drunken spirits. When I'm done, we step outside to watch the road burn, "it's still Tuesday night somewhere? But we're going to see the doors open and close first." Right then, time seems to have stilled. It's become more patient, as though its legs weren't attached to the ground anymore. So I bob upward, a little bit higher. There are chips from the machine, for later. But for now, there's plenty of water, "Then boop, we're screaming right past bedtime." The blinkering exit sign makes itself known