A Study in Patience

Outside, a car horn blasts the presence of a burglar.  Inside, the tea has peaked at a perfect heat, both sweet and sour with a wedge of lemon, but it is the second carafe I've made out of the same grounds, and it is re-heated from this morning on the stove.  Chocolate melts in my mouth, and I must move the car to the other side of the street, drop laundry off downstairs, and edit a piece of writing down into a razor.  Then, with any luck, I'll re-order all of these events and play them all back in a baroque masterpiece that will maintain one foundational insight, to be determined.  One cannot forecast these things.  Can one? Perhaps two.

Either way, we sit, here, sober.  We are, as it were, patient studiers.  Perhaps, the other way, again, studying patience, a study.  We have a study in front of us, and we are the control.  Isolating variables is a bit trickier.  Let us have at it, up the the armpits?  Rather, no.  Let us slide back cool on the side of the road to watch the parade float on by, sip at our tea as the shades of temperature drop through out lips and allow ourselves to stand motionless when someone screams that there's a deal, in the gym, down the street, up the alley, on this flier, in that suit--garnitur, mind you, kapelusz--we'll find our way through on our own, once we can get entrance to the beginning.  Because we stranded in a suspended state, one that, mind you, is here, for, a, reason (insert narrative about grandiose fornication, nay, slay them down into flesh for grilling, for cooking, for procreation and sustenance), a reason that chooses to reveal itself as a game of study.  To study.  To study something that marks itself a vignette of the lived life, a shrunk package that is wholly representative, a flogging.  And stand by.  Stand by.  Have the courage not to doubt.  If not faith, then not doubt.  No more vacillation and nausea.