The Oblong Enchanted Hour

Harlan was already busy setting boundaries when he found out from reliable sources that Toland was dead. It was that chilly blue hour just before 4 AM. Should I hide my parents? wondered Harlan, looking at the basement door. Should I sew for her a fancy hole? But Toland in heroic snobbery was silent. “This,” said Harlan passionately, “is an act of nature against all species,” and before he emerged from the basement again he devised a complicated control by which boundaries here and there would manifest. “I will need binoculars,” he demanded, “not these bourgeois opera glasses!” and he removed from Toland’s eyes the two beef-brown pennies. “No more idle decadence!” he accused, tucking six tacks under her quilt. But Toland was stubborn. It was that crowded white hour just before 6 AM. Should I surprise her with a lubricated vegetable? wondered Harlan in despair. It was that noisy woolen hour just before 8 AM. Should I embrace with all my harms her intrinsic variables like a cushion of needles? It was that star-rationed hour just before 10 AM. He trailed the thread of her body from the bed into the basement. Should I make her come back? he decided, wielding material. It was that oblong enchanted hour just before it is equal again.