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The couch was the scene of an abandoned mouth,
each cushion its own cavity, hosting conversation never to stick
with it. Above, the ceiling fan wobbled in circles,
thinly clinging to the ceiling, as a newly arrived
student— I'm guessing here— sat down and mauled
the keys of the decorative piano. A few sound
right. A man then stands and stumbles on
his chair, the boy playing laughed, looked at him, and stopped.
His name was called. There's no reason to force meaning,
but it can be strange to see dimension in habits.