{ ... }

THE END.

۞

  Witham Sispa was moving through a time that had temporarily lost sight of his own reflection.  It went missing for weeks; no substance, no separation.  Mister O’Niste was waiting for Mister Sispa in the train station mist.  

  The sound of the locomotive clackèd closer.  Clack clack clack, down upon the beaten leaden track.  It was the way back.  The steam blew in from the chimney turret.  Choo, at a distance, choo-hoo, nearer and nearer, the final destination of the men from the mirror.  

  Mister O’Niste was a ruminationary.  He blew on a thick black cigar full of tar.  On the road below, the noise of the automobile car.  Beep beep, parp parp, the noises of automobiles shrill and sharp.  In the air up there, the smoggy fog from the industrious town of the Parisienne quarter of Voltaire.  The day, the week, the year, had been an entirely grey affair.  

  Mister O’Niste wore an extraordinarily large black top hat.  It went up-and-up and then outwards a little, widening, up towards the top, but the top remained flat.  The hat was so large in actual fact that the hat was linèd with lead to stop the haughty thing from tipping and falling from Mister O’Niste’s head.  His coat ran down, from the top of his shoulders, the coat ran down to his thigh, a sumptuous and elegant brown.  

  Mister O’Niste took another puff from the cigar full of tar and blew the smoke around his crown.  

  The steam, the fog, and the smoggy smog was gathering in and around the two men and the sky was thinking of raining.  The bell from the train sounded off.  Ding!  Ding!  Ding!  

  °ablanathanalba°  

  Was it Witham Sispa or Mister Magog who left with Mister O’Niste in the mist and the fog?  

  Phenomanonymous.  Noumenal abstractness.  

۝