By future standards don’t-I-wish 
is disgusting.  
 
How so? we failures inquire. Clad to the hilt in gray-to-black cashmere, we aren’t discussing business at table. Taciturnity in such morbid surroundings is statutory, you howl. “Mm,”the anthropic analyst howls back. He’s staring at my clogs, wondering how they’re embossed.  
 
When struck a lightning rod emits dust, after that a solution, a chemical substance that squiggles down to my feet. That’s how.