"Do you ever get the feeling that it just never begins?"
          "What?
          "You know, it."
          "I don't understand."
          "Neither do I.  I just thought it sounded like a dandelion opening line for a short frwoa.  Or even a long one.  You seem to have lost your mind and memory right at the one of the most important moments in your expected life-long writing career, and I figured what a great story that would make!"
          "But why here in the cafe?  Isn't it a bit late to be starting up a frwoa now?  The time to do so would have been when I arrived on the train station, or perhaps when you woke up this morning or something."
          "Quite right.  Perhaps that's why I'm not in charge of friting the catylist frwoa of all of Okuaka.  Why don't we pretend the past few lines of dialogue never happened, and I'll let you narrate our introductory scene.  Go ahead, give it a shot.  You seem to have retained your skills if not your memory why you should have any reason to bother using them, so give it a shot.
          " 'The short dwarf-esque worflii whom Skip had just met from one point of view, stirred his vague idea for some sort of mixed drink involving alcohol and Pepsi and a solid form of water.  Skip seemed to have hit a brain fart with his initial description, because the bright polka-dotted dress he thought the Worflii was wearing was now full steel-plated battle armour.  The two sat in a vifa cafe, which consisted of a few cafe tables, a bar, a couple sipping milkshakes at a diner booth, and a confused owner who wasn't quite sure if he owned a cafe, bar, restauraunt, or cafarestraunt.  The worflii frowned, yet seemed hopeful; perhaps one might even say fropeful, and the confusing mixed thoughts stirring in his head wobbled and bobbled up and down with the invisible buoy he imagined he was poking with his stirring straw.  His mind was not a mixed drink, but rather a... a mixed think about whether his current dilemma was a good or a bad thing.  He opened his mouth as if about to speak, then seemed to fruse awkwardly about something, and then--' "
          "Alright, alright, that's good.  You seem to have lost only your memory and not your gift with irritatingly overdescriptive narration.  We're going to need that kind of intuition from you if we're both going to survive being bricked to death for not getting this current draft finished of whatever the hell it is we're eventually going to have been writing.  'Going to have been writing...'  Is that right?  I'm a tad drunk and I'm afraid my grammar's a little off beat."
          "Bricked to death?  I'm afraid that doesn't sound very good at all.  What does it--"
          "Bricks!  Writer's bricks!  They're going to throw writer's bricks at us until our friters eventually lose their minds themselves and completely forget they ever brainstormed us.  We'll be dead.  Gone.  Nothing.  Not a remembered death with a lack of a note on a blank tombstone, but simply never to have existed at all.  I feel some metaphor coming on about a hole in a lake but the bartender's giving me that warning look he gives when he's forgotten to pay his quotation licensing fees, and I'm not quite sober enough to figure out the precise probability of the allusion falling under Fair Use rights."
          "Could you be thinking of the Rock Biter's dried up lake in the 1984 Warner Brothers--"  The couple in the bar went rigid as the bartender chopped the wine bottle he was holding downward and smashed it on the edge of the bar.  The surprise on his face said he'd never attempted such a thing and the outcome had entirely surprised him.  He'd clearly meant to do something that would demonstrate his irritability in fusion with his low anger management skills in a threatening manner, but not cause a mess.  Instead, the bottle of what everyone decided was now chicken broth smashed into a plethora of uncountable fragments of glass and liquid.  The faces in the room further tightened as they saw that he looked like he was about to break into tears at the catastrophe, which would certainly further damage his brawny reputation beyond belief.  No one wanted to face the wrath of a doubly disgruntled bartender furious at his own lack of testosterone, but no one could think of anything to say.  When awkwardness grew near it's limit and his eyes were starting to gather moisture, Skip felt a kick from the worflii who seemed to have completely forgotten that Skip had completely forgotten what he could possibly do to remedy the situation.
          "Intuition," he whispered.
          "Ah, yes!  That reminds me of that old classic riddle, why did the cross pessimist cry over a half-empty glass of spilt chicken broth before it got to the other side of the end of the road of life!  To spill, to weep!  Perchance to seep!  For in those fears for tears what seers may steer us wrong must give us ponds!  What light through Yanni's window drapes; we reel kool, we left stool; a hundred bottles of beer in a pool!  Broth--and--beer!  We're not gonna pay; we're not gonna pay last year's frwoa fees!  Don't worry, be happy now!  Yah!  Yah!  Come on, everybody!"
          As Skip wasn't quite sure what he'd done to begin with, he had less of an idea what it had accomplished, and certainly had no idea how to turn his rant into a five-person sing-along, since he wasn't singing at all, and nobody else could possibly know what came next if he did.  Either way, Skip seemed determined to keep going, so he put a cheery jingle to his poem-riddle and began the entire thing again.  The four others in the bar had already forgotten the broken bottle incident and were now just plain staring blankly at him.
          "Ohhh... why did the pessimist cry... about a half emp-ty glass of spilt broth. 
Before it crossed the tot it thought to strife the tot of life!  To-spill-to-weep-perchance to seep, what seers may steer us wrong?  What light that night through, uh--"
          "That's quite enough."  The worflii rushed to toss a twenty on the counter for his drink and Skip's idiocty, and hurried Skip out of the bar.  "Let's get out of here before the bartender recovers his wits and calls the police for noise disturbance or bad poetry drafting."

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