Room rife with ambivalence the moment can't shake. Things are happening right here. No way to make sense of things that have so little. Distress waits in the wings, paints a scrim, bastes a hem, wants the ingenue to break her neck. The air could be eaten with a pudding spoon.
Nothing seems right.
Nature hates a vacuum, just ask and you'll conceive. The world is a poor fit. All the tailors on Carnaby Street, Rue St. Faubourg and Seventh Avenue can't do anything. You'll have to grow into it.