Umbrellas Unopent in Tempests, Part XV

Why do multiples of five feel so rhythmically perfect? Itwethey wanted to call them “even” because they feel so orderly, so even-keeled, that no matter the roiling of the bottomless waters beneath the keel,(Itwethey knows numbers such as fifteen are not “even”) Itwethey may sip his tea (sip, not suck; tip not trowel; fold, not spindle or mutilate (such is nothing more than revelation of Itwethey’s age—as far as Itwethey can discern, or disconcerto mourn—always delightfully young, though stiff and unshiny) may be open to without being drowned in the leak which is Itwethey’s openness): alone. A cow was beautiful, however fed.

Guest stands, imploring. To all it looks as if Guest is naked, and even Guest’s eyes, to Guest’s credit, look naked. Itwethey requires of Guest that Guest allow Itwethey to make love, whether or not that’s a foregone conclusion (Itwethey is structured such that this is never assumed, taken as a solid premise, or concrete (why did concrete become so popular, and as it were akin to modernity and progress: because Marx wished to say something critical about the role of philosophy such as it had always been heretofore? Probably.)

This is number fifteen. Itwethey would curry your favor by making this a place filler. All of Itwethey’s various permutations (and how delectable to put “per” before mutation: Itwethey has a recommendation for Hollywoo'ed: movies about mutation have played out, but until “per” mutations have played out (which is never) you are okay. Therefore, shift to movies on permutation…This will be more hospitable, comfortable, and yes: suntanworthy.

Now we are on fifteen. We have been waiting to meet Guest, with hospitality, honor, nobility, grace, comfort, a glass of sweet wine, without whine, without garland, Judaic or otherwise, without whatever it was Barbara said about semiotics, without the rub, clandestine, of ladder against chin, against chafe, against chaff (it is our buggerboo), against a twining river, opaque, containing within its sylvan wrath, a wrap (chicken pecking in there, or only cilantro stiniking?) a ring, Neurewrapwrath, that in this dim round we might say: FIFTEEN!