Carl

another wife?” he said to Lars, who usually
would change the subject to the pub they sat in
or sometimes they would venture into
conversations about the round glass house
project—I can spend hours talking about the
glass house project, he said. He thought that this
passion could be instilled in Lars, and in turn
perhaps increase his chances of meeting another
woman, it seemed. “I don’t want to meet another
woman.” “Why not, you have no more impetus,”
he replied to Lars, “It would give you some
impetus.” “I don’t want impetus, I want drink.”
“That will get you no where,” he said on a
Thursday evening when he was merely avoiding
the incessant complaints of the digression. The
Arch and Point pub always seemed to add to the
void: empty, quiet, slow, rhythmic—the landlord
Edgar always enforced the playing of the same
songs, and consistent “Arch and Point
atmosphere” he said. O Edgar I can only gesture
towards a different architectural way of thinking,
he said, and even suggested, as he did, more
philosophies of the glass house project: every
object to sit at ninety degree angles, and
positioned in alignment with a mathematical
equation and design Lydia had constructed. It
was strange how her theories juxtaposed her
looks, although rather tall, bovine like, she came
across strangely well put together: her extremely
large chest obviously caused the court case that
went on for more than eighteen months, but she
always appeared more, especially to Carl.
Though at work nobody mentions the
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