Mister air is here, the hiss, the lost channel. He says, and then the phizz of nothing worth it. He's hanging here now for a chance to suggest, as he says, to suggest something which he thinks is searching. He's thinking of something to say, but only to suggest, as he reminds. Then it comes; it's the weather, of course. Then something torrential: "So, how's it been?"
If I put down this pen, if I don't write this this, he will see that it's time to suggest, he might suggest, that this weather is a bit difficult. There is rain; the sun is hesitant, the mist. It's not Friday or he might suggest it's a fine thing to have Friday upon us. He has nothing in front of him but a beer and me and, three days out from us, Friday.
When this stops you will feel the lost channel engulf me. Mister if I'd just lit one cigarette, sipped an absinthe, fiddled a pen, relaced my shoes, whittled birds.