Sitting atop the California coastline, a deceptively peaceful dovecote cove of white whales, frothing and spouting algorithms.

As our hero contemplates, the blubbery orca pokes its snout out of the water quizzically, encrusted with faith, every barnacle singing guilt.

Cetacean of the ancien regieme, timeless eyes like buckets of cytoplasm in the cellular oceans of history itself.

Affection as unpleasantly untouchable as the sputtering filled condom. A vinegaress of salty, bitchy seas.

She speaks to the sullen Viagra Mishima as he spreads silver spores in the raging sea defensively.

Accuses him of all sorts of imperfections and peccadillos. Undercouth and overrepulsive. Impolite and incorrect.

Yet to no small degree her imprecations and accusations are lost in the scream of pocket gulls, the wintry wind, the crashing wavescape.

Not even thinking about her, "It's assymetrical" screams the hundredth-generation designer, his pea-coat and scarf a-foamy flapping.