No pleasure, just a breather, but not while eating. 
 
The show was called; the rain spat. (I'm sorry al fresco’s bad then.)  
Yes. My voice tended toward stridency, an unfortunate strain.  
The music took off about here. 1st smelt feminine along abandoned quays but now looking sharp with canals and minimalist carvings.   
 
We viewed them before the high brutalism of fine dining (Otto Dix).   
 
A violinist, hesitant but banging it out better tonight. This starts our cuisine engines mid-grin.   
 
Tho evasion foregrounds our coerced motives so they sink in more.