Sphere


Queneau




The flag is up, the papers down, the chicks dream into the ceiling. And now the Beaujolais is here. Fourteen hours and fourteen more to go. Days have been spent here in this tinsel castle glittertown and now free-form association bares its egg whites. Hanging from the box junction lamp shades, smokies drift in each character's eyes. A cough is proposed and swift pints are delivered to their bed and breakfast homes for the night. Seven stools lean inwards and there is no more space left on the table. Room is made. Passing by, time waves a cheery hand, obliged no longer by this microcosm to stay on. Laughter is manufactured from within and distributed evenly and fairly among the members. Highly thought of obscenities, badinage, and likewise are shot, propelled, launched, thrown, rolled, and floated across the orchestra pit. Cocktail beers and stiffened rose flowers transport each other up and down Queen Anne's delicate pins and across the floor, across the floor there being kennels of wastage and potato-inspired litterage. Thirteen hours remain of this, and the news is cancerous. Thirteen more French loaves and the butter is all ingurgitated. Traumatic puddles are seeped by fairy light. And the description is complete. Now there are six. Charles is confronting the clothed bartender with a trisyllabic foolhardiness. The desire for liquids is communicated. Now tobacco in free-form polysyllabic improvisation. This is madness. Spurred egg-shells by the keen, clean clientele, navigation most laudable is inspired. Request for transportation by the compression of gases is made and received. Now there are five. Stools are re-employed. And the first chapter is completed.




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