Mystery is the meat and drink of humankind; also, I have seen, a boundless resource of today’s Middle Kingdom. What studiously-indumbrated glyph born in the pure heart of a Zen tagger, what teasing, lion-pawed Sphinx, could mystify more than an elegant ‘end of drainage’ figuring at the end of the bar, put there, perhaps, by the poker-faced Solar-Powered Good Luck Cat smug now in his glass tabernacle above the dusty champagne flutes?
The? ‘End’? End figured? End figuring, figurative, prefiguring, prefigurative, prefigured?
All Ends?
All? ‘Drainage’? Drainage physical? Drainage abstract, locational, virtual?
Drainages?
Drain the dregs, dredge the drains.
Drain the ditches and end the end of the evening at the bottom of the bewitching hour, drained comrades!
What should we know?
How should we know it?
Tell me. What time is it?
Should it be?