Convolute N... (Announcement in March)

Interlude. I have a better "N" to post for a convolute, but here's a short, metaphysical sort of post until I am allowed to do a press release on topic N.

Nothing like signing on to the World Wide Web after hiatus and finding out that not only do you not recall posting on "We Are All Going To Die," but there is a new blogger on the Intranet, she thought to herself as she pawed at her phone. She imagined herself in another city and captioned her meeting, Two Girls Discuss Magnitudes of Small Things Over Belgian Ale at Keybar.

There were CDs and shiny things dangling from above the lacquered table at 13th Street. The place had a wraparound sort of charm, couple slanted benches strewn to the side, but there were no cloaks left in disarray as there typically were after an evening's close.

She waited for her friend. The girl looked to see what was on tap. She picked a beer that had a wooden, cupid figurine on the handle. She did not know the name of the beer, nor its pronunciation, but the barmaid informed her it was Belgian. She gave her a card for drink deals that was faded. It seemed like she had handed the card out, gotten it returned and then passed it out again with repetition.

"There should be an Introduction to Disqus for Dummies that goes over etiquette in these situations," she sighed and kept talking to her phone. Strange little electronic, the kind of phone that kept time. She wanted one of the moleskins with a watch sewn into a cover. She sipped on her drink, a touch, and noticed no one was on the street at 4 o'clock PM. The only people she had seen were the casual sorts of couples that walked down the street arm-in-arm.

She felt lonesome. Not only did she not recall posting on this board, but the name BigBodyBrett perplexed her. Her friend was late. She wouldn't bother explaining this to her friend. After all, her friend usually responded to her dilemmas with declaratives like, "Boys are only companions. They are only companions."

Lest we not jump to conclusions, it is perhaps reassuring, she noticed (,quietly, on her phone,) that Korea airs this commercial on public television.

Lest someone not be offended, somewhere.

The sounds of sweeping footsteps echoed outside the door. There was the rubble of someone pushing a garbage can to the sidewalk. Someone dropped some quarters. The music grew fuzzier and the sun set, a little slanted-like. A little slanted-like, she waited for her friend. She was writing for the analytics, now, and then the city was calculating it cabs to its burghs.