There is a lying down, a whistle-by glance-away while coins are spent elsewhere around the cobblestone boulevard plagued by past horses and future tenses. Nearby, other coins are tossed, accounted and arranged into a reading of lines which are supposed to say something useful about an image, a tradition and a way to be in accord with something thought to be important by the few people still willing to spend a dollar for the interaction, the promised result, or the willingness they possess at dinner the following evening to confess what they've done, in the midst of polite yet pointed inquiries as to the whereabouts of the horses, but don't tell anyone they're dead.
An example. To be in accord, she was told to Conjoin!, a six line figure in a transforming sequence forgotten though ancient and ingrained in a book. Then soup. The result seemed believable, but how to apply it to the rest of the day was a mystery unbeknownst to the pennies, who had yet to arrive. The salad did, with a tense dressing. Her husband, sitting to her right, did not, did not appreciate this expenditure of the dollar, which he considered his during normal business hours, and attempted through affectionate misdirection to return the evening's topic to the horses, whom he thought an important part of the town's tradition, don't you agree, along with the cobblestones, a tradition marred by the presence of undesirable coin-tossers and fire-eaters. Then steak. She was undeterred, and in fact saw this as a convenient opportunity to Conjoin!. Wine was continuous, though not very good, the fault of the host who was interested in nothing present. Then sherbet for some, all of whom were guests, town residents, newcomers to the coin tradition but not other traditions, in accord with their various careers, backgrounds and particular smiles for particular occasions. Then home via Expedition, where the argument concerning cobblestones, horses, tradition, conjoining, finances, dinner etiquette honey, coin tossing, and now expanded to include gasoline and the most optimal plan for tomorrow's errands, continued outside this example. Then a rearview glance-away honk at a nearby lying down.
Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man, but coaxed
down-stairs a step at a time.
-- Mark Twain, "Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar
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