Two things were available to Samuel. The city, through which he walked. The language—that was not walked through but did manipulate his steps, his direction, his speed.
Flinging steps! No—the lower part of the body—to fling would be a dance. That wasn't the issueit was rather from the torso at least—the flung moment, feeling, intensity.
Whatever its trajectory—was that language? Was that a bodily carved word or two?
To say it was was to fold back into the dance, flinging it, the word on word, city—coiled, language, tongue of intention, flapped against itself, double.
A door which, opened, offered Samuel an entry into the room of refreshment—sat least he posited that to himself as an opportunity rejected.
His personal imperative? Nobody knew the exact correlation of that to his fleshly body that seemed of surprisingly different bulk upon different, adjacent, moments of encounter.
Samuel knew enough to know well enough, enough was enough, and Samuel whirled about the available room (thinking about it at least) before the imaginative venture into the room with the hypothetically laden banquet table.
So doing—it was easy to free himself from the mind image he knew wasn't real—yet on the other hand, to what could he attribute those images of a table piled high with cakes, fruits, baked meats, and other goodies?
It was snowing, the Venetian blinds were half closed, and Samuel realized that the snow was eternal, melting always, half and half descended (did he have a white flickering attention span, granulated to echo that soft drift?) and was the nourishment in search, always, of more stable form?