Twelve straight years
of strict
training, and he
still never thinks
twice about
skipping it
because it's nice
out or remotely
considers
attending when it's
gloomy; nor does he
feel particular-
ly
lucky under
the vast, free
wheeling-but-
functional-
looking
networked capillaries
of pale stars
(which he
still sees
whenever he
accidentally
strays beyond
the hedonistic
gaze of the
city) or
even the least
bit chilly
and dim-
witted
in the cool
shards of light-
punctured
darkness underneath
an apple
tree. But—curiously,
each time that he
walks past
an outdoor table
which is empty—he still finds
that he
must actively
suppress
an unconscionable
urge—to produce silver
and set it
for two
people—and just
sit there
for a good forty-
five minutes
or so,
even though
he assumes—both
that nobody
is coming
and that, if someone ever
did, he'd be
far too spooked—to
consume anything.
