I: The unbroken rule of metaphysics establishes itself even where we do not expect it——in the elaboration of logic into logistics.

A bushman begs a nun for a sip of gin. He benignly hums; she numbly sums up the tally sheet and crumples her mesh skirt into the bin. The window hinge squeaks its salutation, its resurrection. He feels snubbed. She shuns, begins to hum. The sunbeam draws nigh. The sign hung above the door swings in the breeze. She sings. The hens are nabbed and ambushed–tied into a bag. “What’s on the menu?” he smugly questions. She wants to banish him. She replies in iambs. She soaks the plate in the basin. The hem unravels. My neighbor mine. The hangman leaves the diner and kicks the dog with mange. Ahem. Amen. Shame wipes its sweaty brow. What’s that color? Henna? Ashen? What do you mean, “What’s my name?” It’s the same as the day before. The bum shags the hag. He wraps the gash. A gunman enters from the town of Nimbus. “Ha! I’m out of gas.” Can I get a ham sandwich to go?

I: The unbroken rule of metaphysics establishes itself even where we do not expect it——in the elaboration of logic into logistics.

A bushman begs a nun for a sip of gin. He benignly hums; she numbly sums up the tally sheet and crumples her mesh skirt into the bin. The window hinge squeaks its salutation, its resurrection. He feels snubbed. She shuns, begins to hum. The sunbeam draws nigh. The sign hung above the door swings in the breeze. She sings. The hens are nabbed and ambushed–tied into a bag. “What’s on the menu?” he smugly questions. She wants to banish him. She replies in iambs. She soaks the plate in the basin. The hem unravels. My neighbor mine. The hangman leaves the diner and kicks the dog with mange. Ahem. Amen. Shame wipes its sweaty brow. What’s that color? Henna? Ashen? What do you mean, “What’s my name?” It’s the same as the day before. The bum shags the hag. He wraps the gash. A gunman enters from the town of Nimbus. “Ha! I’m out of gas.” Can I get a ham sandwich to go?