Strangely, in the clutches of Victoriana and smouldering coals, the new grate throwing heat into the centre of the room, the tone shifted. A slide toward antagony, upon reception of a distended joke, nobody was laughing. The argument had rounded on itself, inquisitive blurs of movement and cigarette smoke, as though a theatrical backdrop.
The crowd talked in slurred fonts, spilling things in type. Casual talk, always the dawn of an argument, began with tellings of leisurely infatuations. Removal of person was crucial, allow for specifics but distance oneself from the inflammation of direction. The direction of inflammation, perhaps.
Playful admonishment followed, taking gunshot turns at those who dreamt of over-exercised teenagers in crisp white institutional dresses.
A perversion is a dirty secret. A perversion is an acceptable fantasy. Only if they remain.
The numbers held firm and culpable, more had joined us, we were eight and full of silent influence. The promises held a recognition, pointers to what we had read earlier. Wordy resolutions blossomed, an easy escape, sourcing fact and judgement, the organic referrals to something we all knew, and then god entered the room from the mouth up.