As he wandered through the shouting streets of Friday night,
Mr. Nothing wondered if it was worth trading his tinnitus
for the promise of fun at McNasty’s, as the name itself was
not particularly appealing, and the noise on the spot made it
hard to hear his own thoughts, let alone have any conversation.
And then there was the curse of many such establishments: karaoke.
So, after an hour or so, excusing himself with a headache, he left.
At home, he made flatbread and tried to imagine a Man of a sort
willing to invent the fly.
hidden pilcrow 