In the dreaming there was that rhythm, that metric. He watched people in cafes, while he scribbled in his notebook. He wrote a bit, then looked around for a bit, then wrote a bit. He tried to understand. He read between the lines.
The daydreams backed up, played again, didn't talk. They came out of the sunlit coffee thing. There were cracks in the wooden table, consciously caffeinated. And they came to be measured at the gate on the slow ward side.