The umbrellas were broad and boldy striped. We crouched beneath them in the downpour, clutching our drinks with palsied fingers. "Tell me," I asked, "Is this your fundamental belief, or just something you like to dig up at night?" Then I quaffed the remainder of my luminous green drink. "He, ha!" He, she, said, "You wish they were made of sand, but of course this is really the age of lead." I wrung out my sodden hankerchief and remarked that I felt as if we had spent twenty to thirty years on discussing this very treatise. Instead, we retired to the parlor, gilt and velour coated, lamps ablaze. "What is it, then," I asked, "that you had planned to accomplish in the dining hall?" The waters deep, the attitudes high on thujone and pheromone, I had no choice but to say, "Any intention should be considered but possibly abandoned once the moment has passed." Here there was an absence of light, yet still the drooping flowers turned to follow the best of the choir down to the river, where they engaged in the ritual called the "Sugaring of the Flesh." After that, they returned to a topical discussion of the decor, and never once mentioned the pervasive odor of roses and the abandoned book that stood, pages uncut, on the mahogany end table.

Exquisite Corpse III by abc.f

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