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The shadow walk of the anti-maid can be related to the flightless pattern of a well-thought-out bird. Somewhere in the early morning hours, which the worms consider to be their private moment, interfering birds of the alert persuasion give them emphatic grief of the gustatory sort. Thus, too, the anti-maid comes cravenly after the proclaiming maid issuing denials and ridicules with equal gestures of the wrists and palms. These grains of sprinkled mood alteration devices are then re-assembled in the forms of dysfunctioning machinewear and are then used to clothe our bodies and our minds within resemblences to earlier women and men of the cavorttype. And, of course, dancing is announced and indulged; rhythms are overlapped as cacophones, and the jesters within us all are finally released from the seclusion of stone. A service is definitely rendered, and a dialogue can follow.

However, there is only one chap clapping.

And the shadows ricochet from the walls in every-moment-apparency, and you must have a ticket to play in the game.

This announcement will be made before and after every gathering in which a claim of apparency is to be either bought, bent, or sold through an intermediary. All other whimsies are unobscured.

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