A desk in the shape of a box sat in the living room of one Mr. David Nashe. Mr. Nashe, having vacated the putrescent premises of his abode this particular evening, distributed sequentially a series of ego-contents in spurts of fantastically phantasmagorical rapidity, his consciousness plastered about the total surface area of one Ms. Nora Veronica, seated and situated adjacent his person, seeping duly purposeful magnitudes of that superbly feminine magniloquence. Poised in the manner of a tiger in constructive possession of that great misfortune (that is, having been stuffed), she breathed slowly. A species of Caucasians adorned in (imitation) African dresses passed by the automobile in which they were stationed, a large Cadillac.
She spoke, each word tinged with the acrimony of repressed vehemence.