Peppered questions and replies within a spicy verbal fruits du mer. Delicious tasty bits from salacious gossip, agreed character assassinations, to sobering revelations on the inevitable elections ahead. Cracked shells, some left unopened.

We were fucked. Stirring my melting cocktail and processing the news I had refused to accept. Until.

Trapped in plastic rings and webs – a populace unconcerned in future or consequence. Confident in spiritual guidance from the great martyr and the orange sage. Judgement delayed until perhaps too late. But the new D reigns. Interpretations have changed for a worn vision that failed previously. Still a consensus to try again. The hope is history will again have time to remember. She told us time has run out – the youth confirmed.

Still some left, I swirled the cubes to marinate the last of my bittersweet elixir for one final gulp. Was their hope – I sensed not. Dark outside, the rain continued to wash the city in rhythmic innocence.