To the center

Halfway through Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart, and I’m at the point where the tease of fairy-tale wonder is rearing its erection. (ah! but too late! Too late again, Haruki! Why do you insist on page after page of descriptions of your meals???)
All the way through glass two of a nip of Suntory Yamazaki 12-year, and I am at the point where fairy tale wonder is wreaking havoc on my liver.
The day came to it’s Monday’s end with all possible haste. I am here, and here I will remain until laundry calls me to even more prosaic duty.
I’m reduced to observing things, merely observing things.
I am elevated to an appreciation of Lambchop’s Damaged robust as Babe the Blue Ox, and a full hand higher if it’s an inch.
I don’t mix my metaphors- they mix reflexively, like verbs in sing-songy languages. Not passively like in my surgical English.