Wandering alone in a dark city. Series of Victorian or Georgian - boxy with two floors and a portico on the second. It was just here, but in my walking I have lost it. This is the street where it was, where she was. She seemed interested - but now I hear her. She's broadcasting to a companion about me, ridicule, meant for me to hear.
Now it does not matter where the boxy Georgian was.
I go and there are others. I sit. It's lunchtime. I say, in answer to a question, no, I have no job.
Someone sitting with me says, heave to, we'll find you work. He leads me into the yard where various workers pass. Ask that one, he counsels. She is an ordinary cook. I ask her, but only to gratify my ad hoc career counselor. I am not very coherent, but she isn't listening.
Alone, I see back at table a strange object take shape under the rice and gravy. I am utterly revolted. It seems to be a male appendage!
I bolt the table. Something must be done. But what? How does one complain about such disgusting outrage?
While I'm wandering about in the courtyard I see my place has been cleared. I'm not really sad I have not that to deal with.
I have only my solitary state in a noir set of unconcerned strangers, my natural dreamstate.
From Timothy by Saphire to you!