Their idleness, aimless and languid airs.

I had wanted to dig a trench around the tree to bury something there only to hold testament that certain things never change but today at precisely five the balcony played gallery to a brilliant procession of blackbirds soaring at moderate heights falling short of drilling holes in the sky. Also I would imagine a lake teeming with trout boiling up as though a hugh pinch of soda had been flung into it producing first a silly little ripple, then a sort of scintillating boiling and finally a jazzy fit of frenzy.- all in all exactly at half past six. Time, in these instances, then, is not bedridden by fallacy.