A suit subdued the camber of his overdeveloped chest.

He sat before a plate of pancakes and sausages, waiting for the square of butter to melt and run so he could use his fork to swirl it into the torpid syrup and then watch the marks made by the tines slowly fold into the soak.

There were cubicles exposed at street level, men and women watching screens, and he felt the safety of their circumstance, the fastness, the involution of it, their curling embryonic ingrowth, secret and creaturely.

He watched the major issues breeze by and felt purified in nameless ways to see prices spiral into lubricious plunge