There's a disturbance at the other end of the bar, and perhaps we should leave before it's too late, another spirit now to approach this, detrimental to the winding down of retrograde machines, apples not known for their taste at the best of times. Twist the scene around, see it from another angle, one that takes us over the brow of a hill, towards the edge of the great city and clouded reigns, just as at the rich girl's party we were thrown out, all burnished for the night, rolled like marbles down the gutter, still lain there next morning, an offering to the sun indifferent to our prayers, shining brightly nonetheless.