Baudelaire, who looks in the mouths of everyone present. Interesting, interesting. Then he looks in the wheezing mouths of the horses, interesting, interesting, and diagnoses an oviduct inflammation, a syphilis nation with the loss of the center of the world, the breaking of the baguette. The diagnosis makes patients deeply sad. The allegory is ineffective, the generic alexandrine amputated. If we were at Place de Grêve, we would throw a few live cats on the grill in consolation. Here, horses must be content with horses, and microbes with the outrage at boudoirs. Nothing upright. Maybe it was July fourteenth, maybe every July was the fourteenth, perhaps there were fourteen Julys on the calendar at the Japanese restaurant, where all seven lay doubled across fourteen tables. In the middle of a glowing white fourteenth day, with their eyes rolled back, they lay and waited for the doctor to arrive in tricolor and align bone after bone, all fourteen bones. And at least as many tables.