I read the furrows in their brow and between the lines of our ageless faces; the way it braces on a man of forty surely means something.

Jacketed diplomats, the conferring like a chorus of walrus, or a wall with dryers in the laundromat rumbling in sonorous unison.

There in me.

The souped-up Hondas stalled in traffic on Bruneside, burping their subwoof like a council of bullfrogs.

Somberly, Kimberly, they install the settling evening.