On Borrowing a Pen

They have decreed that it will rain today, gobbets of mercury-like droplets shooting from the heavens in an all-out offensive against sheet metal roofs. The defenders do little to keep out the roar, moaning instead, beseeching others to end their pain. I watch, immersed in waves of monologue on coplanar angular velocities of two billiard balls (red), as they compress the universe into six rounds, sealed with tears of red and blue ink spilling out from the cartridges, mixed together to perform a never-ending dance of red-blue, red-blue, sugar is sweet and so are you. 

I think they prefer gawking at us this way. 

Two point four meters per second converted perfectly to a hundred and eighty-one pitter-pattering marching steps on the roof and seventy-four turns of the cog in your chest is the solution I get for their dilemma, but I know I am wrong. Deviation: unacceptable; where is my pen? Corrections must be made or all shall be—. Lost, I scribble away with white crayon on a blank sheet of white paper, aware of the all-too-soon daily routine beginning its course—they must have wound up time to compensate for the rain. 

“May I borrow a pen?” Your veins glisten under fluorescent lighting; why ask me when ink flows in your body but only the four humors in mine? 

“Sure.”