No chairs, only gestures pretending to sit.
Ink gathers like gossip—
each stroke a rumor of movement.

Cups? Perhaps. Or thoughts poured halfway.
Someone raises a toast to the unfinished.
The table hums with caffeine and contradiction.

Hypothesis: this is a conversation about silence.
Counter-hypothesis: silence has already left the room.

Lines overlap like drunken syntax.
Speech leaks sideways.
Hands dissolve into exclamation points.

Black laughs. White blinks.
DADA orders another round—
served neat,
in the geometry of confusion.