They were gone—FOOP! Off to the bedroom like cats to piñatas. And there I was, at a fork and a beer. —I’d like to propose a toast, I never said to anyone in the meantime. But you understand why? Don’t you. ¡Whatwithallthebloodyyelling! There’s butter, and bread, and it would do well to drink wine, not water, said Paul, as he knelt, by Thessalonica, as I do, now. But it began, by my hand, “Of the first was he to bare arms in the name—Drunkandhalfnakedwithouthisglasses.” And what’s he to do unmarried with a buttered loaf and job? Not by grace, not by the movement of time, or going back to it, nor by which end when undrunk I might have begun before swallows, not by rabbis or religion do I have an idea. Until, at the last, there came from the cavernous bedchamber, a cacophony, as if Shakespeare in love, and it is somehow written somewhere:

the end shall come like a thief in the night
or a thief in the womb.