Title: The weekend's over but the story's just begun.
Review: The weekend's over but the story's just begun to make sense of its well-plotted ground, unplanting a pair of buried scissors which cut the paper-thin skin of well-seeded grapes. The cut grapes cry over spilt juice which runs like tears in the surface of a river which runs toward a house whose dry insides would surely comfort, if anyone were home. But they're all outside, discussing this (not to mention--except ever-so-discreetly--that), missing the train of thought that brought them together (and which will, later, by car, drive them apart). If a painting could tell their story, should it? And who could, who should, tell the painting to tell the story, just as it was written and just as exactly? Neither you nor I nor you nor I nor you nor I nor you nor I nor...
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