Wonderwalls exist because buried blackened-but-not-blacked angels inside human conscience know that no mortal even them will confess to someone else "I think of you all the while." So it’s scratched or permanent rather than left written or contractually unscrewed for the place of a new public door.

Churchill will have told us. With one line.

If you’re not busy making friends out of minimal intimacy, the owner may lay out a newspaper crossword amid a riotous billiard bar pretending to be an unwitting god receptive to the barometer. Until the night can go, speeds of light are usually left tracing the altitude ghosting vacant barstools.