Sometimes the shuffling of playing cards sounds like the tearing of lettuce, my friend.
And sometimes the tearing of lettuce sounds like the crunch of snow underfoot, as you walk, fuzzy from drinking all night, on a ghostly white winter road.
And sometimes the weird smoke and light of a forest fire reddens the moon, making it look like a single blood-shot eye, the eye of a sad jeweler examining a ruined emerald.
And often people ask "Why?" when they know the answer, or when they know the one asked can't possibly know the answer.
And sometimes you just want to lie down, don't you?, in a room and have done with it, have done with it all, the infinite mess of the here and the now.
"Let them have it, let them have the mess," you may say to yourself, my friend. "I am going to rest here alone."