Just back from the Northumberland Strait,

Aristotle mounts the stool,

the hard way,

to take possession of his order of Flapjacks.

“Freud got it all wrong,

you know boys!”

All heads turn to the right at the counter,

looking down to the very last spot,

we know what comes next!

Aristotle places a fork between his thumb and forefinger,

like a surgeon about to make a minor miracle.

“It’s all a matter of human astrophysics,

let me show you how this all works out”.

Down at the opposite end of the counter,

California speaks out,

“I think I’m going to need a beer down here”.

Aristotle takes his fork and gently lifts the stack,

to reveal the bottommost pancake.

“The human psyche is like this stack of Flapjacks,

each layer is a part of our emotional makeup and history”

He then places a pat of butter on the bottom most pancake.

“At the bottom of our human stack is our most basic needs”

From the other end of the counter is heard,

“I’ll take that beer now”.

Aristotle then used his fork to reveal the next pancake in the stack,

and again placed a pat of butter upon it.

“This is what I call the Flapjack theorem of unconscious desires,

this layer represents our most banal human needs”

Then he took the bottle of Maple Syrup from the counter place,

and sent it swirling about the stack in front of him.

“Look fellas,

watch as our human desires of the subconscious,

seem to envelop our minds in a random fashion”

“It is not random,

trust me,

it is not random!”

Finally Aristotle released the stack of Flapjacks from his control,

and requested some whipped cream,

and then with his spoon,

he placed a dollop of it on top of the stack of Flapjacks.

“And we all know what this is,

don’t we boys?”

Suddenly,

silence OverCame the Day and Night.

Time stood still,

as if all the truths of the inner psyche and infinite universe,

were about to be revealed.

“It’s the Full Moon of course!”

Down at the other end of the counter,

California put down her long neck bottle of beer,

she turned her head and rested her face upon her hand,

as her beautiful blonde hair shifted slightly.

Coiffed by the Mystic Shores,

and embraced by the fog,

swept by the winds of East Ferry,

as she looked out to what might lie beyond.

California lowered her head,

extended her gaze to the opposite end of the counter,

to study Aristotle with great precision,

as he looked back at her.