The candle went out insubstantial as a disjunction leaving no aroma. The regular ride ran beside unsandblasted brickwork. The masonry of old distilleries brook no acceleration in that car through that place perched on edge. In this kitchen through this door was set upon the oak table chicory whose curls spear the tongue with phrased delights of the grown. He watched him scrub his nails paying care to the cuticle trapping dirt. It was then that the phrasing had endured long gorgeous periods of the edge of a hand turning its awkward thumb to the air and its delicate tracing finger sculpted the spine in a haughty gesture all the way to the back ass syncopation of a funeral. Salad days and cocktail nights tumble at a glance into the declined brunch as the car treads on. It was then.