A Trip through Time – Vincent Saint Quentin
Upon this French bench, I sat in recumbent silence. The food before me, a bagel, were not the article of such renown, as alamode. And the pigeons here, were just as agreeing as in any other city. I wore myself a scarf, and gazed upon the beauty of the carved face before me, a reticule, as it were, of chastity and vice.
I were of a habit, of chewing my opinions. I talked, as if the doves had come home, and I were as rowdy as any other farce, bent upon the will of the bedside manner.
“Do you wish it upon yourself to betide, or do you, as a habit?”
“Do I as a habit what?”
I were on the edge of my seat, the edge of my toes, so to speak. The palaver, were fatty, leaning upon emeritus. It switched between tense, like it were a clockwork orange, and it sprouted before us, and died in its layman terms.
“But, isn’t it so cliché?”
The cross sections of opinion, were dualistic, and not fancy to mine ilk. I were crossing the boundaries, and we could talk as loud as we wanted, and assuredly not be overheard. The roar of the bus, the twang of their accented home tongues.
“I believe in the righteous, but the factionless?”
The table, were bare of spread or doily, the smoke tray, filled with our butt ends, but no ash.
“I continue to see through you.”
Then, we dropped, and our conversation halted. At moments like these, two priests would talk of holy sacrament, of hope.
The epic of our lives, flooded with fear, we were to stay in this city for numerous nights.
“But, about that kid, who lived.” And there the moniker stayed our fires, and the swells of mischief suddenly bonded the causes of the lions.