An electrical gadget on the edge of the tub.

Yesterday did not appear the type where riots would later break out in some distant suburban neighbourhood by bored university students on an Irish holiday. I was reading on the porch in the sun, with all the drinks, and was listening to someone who I could not see while they played every song they knew on their acoustic guitar. A woman with the type and figure of Anjelica Huston, though with charred golden hair, strolled with her air around the corner. She wore black, with heavy earrings and makeup, had a wide black hat on, and she carried a colourful goblet with lightness. She asked, do I know where that guitar is coming from? And then stepped past me, beyond the corner of the house and into my backyard. When she came back, she asked me again, and then told me some things about myself. She took two sips from her goblet, turned, and drifted past the next house and into its backyard.