A man tired from the waking day hangs his keys on the beaded hook, lets the hat off his grateful head. He places himself in front of the table where he laid down his papers, his skins and his skin. He put on the table, the day's characters, mulled them over in the electronic hum of Aleph and coffee flavoured eyes, rolled them up tight with tomorrow's fears and set them alight. He put there a glass ashtray to catch the embers of regret. He put on the table his dear friend, Old Man Wibble, the bedlamite seer, drunken oracle, "liquid Jesus, straight from the bottle" and longed for a glass to raise. He put there the smoke from his exasperated lungs and the wistful music of his tired throat, he put there every last syllable and every letter left lingering on a lost lovers lips. He put hope on the table, for the weight might crush him as he sat but not the table, solid under this load, to bear weight is what a table must do and tomorrow will always bring another pile.