Weakly the party fondly ground to a halt. In the end it was only the pianist who still had ivories, it was to him that we turned for solace and octaves. The day was all over and he was all over too, maybe it was the fading heat of the stomach of the blonde of the businessman's secretary's personal shopper's lover who caused the sombre mood, in the end it didn't matter because new light was just around the corner. There she was lurking in pale leviathan. Deep, chisled, dry, and spiralling, love lay with her and sprang from her. Long live love.