The air was light and sweet

The window was open and there was a breeze. We were speaking very slowly, almost drunkenly. Our words seemed to rise toward the ceiling. The air was light and sweet. The words we spoke did not seem particularly ours; although we said nothing remarkable, the words surprised me at times. It may have been my hunger that accounted for these feelings. "What's it like to weigh three hundred pounds?" "It's like being an overwritten paragraph." "They should get you a larger bed." "I don't mind the bed. Everything is fine here. Things are going very well. I'm glad I came. It was good thinking. It showed intelligence. The bed is perfectly all right." "Does the silence bother you?" "What silence?" he said. "You know what I mean. The big noise out there." "Out over the desert you mean. The rumble." "The silence. The big metallic noise." "It doesn't bother me." "It bothers me," I said. I was enjoying myself immensely. I was drunk with hunger. My tongue emitted wisdom after wisdom. Our words floated in the dimness, in the room's mild moonlight, weightless phrases polished by the cool confident knowledge of centuries. I was eager for subjects to envelop, questions demanding men of antic dimension, riddles as yet unsolved, large bloody meathunks we might rip apart with mastiff teeth. Nothing unromantic would suffice.