Atomic grief captivates the masses, though they are not certain why they are grieving or for whom.  It envelopes every molecule of their bodies, the ones they obsess over constantly, primping in the mirrors that surround them, measuring themselves against the mannequinnish models displayed at every turn, wondering if they should have the larger fries, the super size.  They realize their eyes can't be trusted, so dabble instead with crypto-psychologic-geometry, the calculus of greed and competition.  Measure this, I say; measure the depth and breadth of your soul; your heart beats uncertainly for only its time here, not a second more.  Caress your pulse - it longs for signs of life outside its cavernous veins, to know that it is loved and held dear above all else.

Somebody's daughter serves behind the bar, milking stout from a docile tap, knowing the small talk and interested eye of the working men (she calls them guys) is superficial and forced, laid across the oak like a cape on a puddle, for her to cross dryly, or not.  It will always be her choice.  If it was New York or LA or Miami or Bangkok she'd feign interest, at best. Welcome to the midwest! Where intentions are taken to be good, and incredibly by comparison, generally are. It's the corn.  It filters into every cell, every molecule under observation, and switches on the nice-and-sometimes-gullible receptors in the frontal lobe. You can check it out on Wikipedia in a delicious article by Julian Assande and C. Everett Coop.