Will's tendency to never let a chance go by to throw in a fuck-me-4-times shoes, expressions that tickle and show his allegiance to sophomorism, is daunting however today silenced somewhat. But sometimes the morning arrives with an actual 4 times and some writing as good as Mad Men's Dave Algonquin's living in the country that was making him cry; it was killing him with its silence and loneliness, making everything ordinary too beautiful to bear and he realizes this faked effusing of writer's output is not even sophomoric yet. Shouldn't he be able to portray the entrance of Love into his room as a gussied up barfly from the disco era with one gray eye and one hazel one, silent about future events, choosing instead to let the garroted declarations slither out between html anchors? It's just not enough to be the anthropomorphized humming bird watching down from the acacia branch looking at the adorable couple on the wicker romper, sipping some torpedo and devoid of even a trace of CPA, clueless about the fireworks about to erupt from under the covers in just a dozen hours or so. Spinning wings stir the reality like an inadvertent grazing of a thigh on a butt cheek. Except these two never fly away, they find returning throughout the day seems to be a better recipe for goin' steady. And the hummingbird never clips his nails neither.