I let the tea rub between the ridges on my fingers like a mad wallet. Then he lets the drippy run dry and makes the candles feel like silk. We sunk a ship tomorrow and everyone will drown yesterday. Time is more nonsensical than two and two making four and the pit of the peach must have gone really deep to see that high up. Even perception of height is illogical here. In this room, everything is a party. Everyday, every night. Logic sits in his corner of the room looking at his feet with a gun in his mouth; in a catatonic state. Illogic loves to bite the strings of organs and slam the fists of whale waves. It is the most famous past time in my head.