Through which a secret message was passed. The message: smudged, thus rendered illegible.
A twig, or some such thing, on a sweater. The owner of the sweater, a corpulent man with a red face, curses. Then he puts his hand to his mouth.
Intended to light their way, fails, and results, tragically, in tragedy.
The shape of a skull, perhaps, or a shape drawn on the back of a receipt. A pile of tissue has accumulated on the man’s desk. He hangs his head in shame, certain that someone might someday notice.
The woman I met the other night. Said things similar to things I might myself say, though her things were said with a smile.
A frank but foreign species, inclined to indolence and altogether lacking certain social skills. Once captured, it should be treated with insolence.