"We ain't never writ here where the
hobos transfix upon two litres of the
good stuff," he says.
"It's the cigarettes you know," a sound murmurs
swiftly through to buffer any cues of
intelligence.
In town there is a section called Rough End always.
It's rule three, lodging itself there aside
"Mayor's House" and "Gathering Fountain".
The town allows itself to be populated
only after this criteria is met.
"It's six o'clock," he claims as if some
obelisk should erect itself from the ground
to honour his heroic act of
staring at a clock.
"I've only got fifty two cents here," the
sound murmurs assertively, "how can you--"
"Well I just," he studies the atmosphere licking his
finger to feel for wind, "figured. You know."
She produces an effort to lack sympathy,
"I mean one of these quarters isn't even
legal American tender."
On the hill there, people do sleep. They
sleep well. In fact they sleep very well:
Well enough to conquer morning's solitude
in a manner not unlike exposing oneself
to various forms of culture pre-dating
the 19th century.
"Now that it's happened to me," he scoffs,
"I can be an expert." The sound's boot-
heels sway to better a cleft between
her and a cube of selfishness.
"If there had ever been a metaphor produced to
detail that boy's feeble charm," she strolls on
in soliloquy, "it was a sad
acknowledgement...and a damned foolish way
to kill one's carrier."
There's rising action
during the town's bicentennial party down
by the band shell. The townsfolk mingle,
although a common foundation of interest
presently escapes them.
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