An hour passes by and the tree somewhere in Brooklyn grows older.
Such coincidence can only be divine wind, a perfect storm that swirls gusty orange cones in flashing orange lights. Nothing moves, everything freezes, only brazen thoughts discourteously converge. In but not on edge, the violatile fuse so out of context just fails to light. The telltale hiss of trailing sparks never materialize as if drowned by the existing moisture of the surrounding choppy waters. Yet the instructions on the yellow box says to pull the tab out to activate.
Where is William Holden and when will he save us?