About a sunday morning marked by something what might be a meiosis of a simple mind?

The woman at the table next to us cried. She confessed that she had not eaten sugar for at least six years. Last time she "binged on carbs" was when she had a piece of a bagel from a co-workers plate. That was last week... no month. Sometimes I imagine restaurants in which conversations from other tables are transmitted to a little receiver on a table in a different corner or room of the place. Maybe the names used in the conversations could be bleeped out. Maybe the transmission could come from a completely different restaurant? Imagine the mix of oysters and pizza... Maybe the only factor common could be the number of parties at the table. Maybe their gender-ratio could be common too. Couples would receive the transmission of other couples. Single eaters would hear the whisper of the inner dialogue at another lonely table... and larger parties... well larger parties sometimes rarely say or listen to anything anyway. A bagel. I just brought one to this table and it was one with "everything" and it had then some on it and it was also supposedly toasted. (Though if that bagel was toasted, then I would get drunk by sitting at a bar with just a glas of mineral water in my hand.) Now and for the next few days there is going to be a halo of dough in my stomach. I can feel it. It is developing a strong magnetism towards the chair I am sitting on. Ugh. Maybe I should not do this again. Next sunday I will just lick the leaves of my little lime tree for breakfast. I will try to avoid the thorns. At least the coffee is not sour. (It was last week, or the week before? Both?) The shadows in the street below are intriguing and long and dark. I should be out there, clicking like a madman. But I just threw my anchor here... my elbows are so comfortable on this warm and wooden desk. Bagel magnet works so well... I surprised myself this morning by watching an email grow in front of me. I had completely forgotten about my fingers and the slow thoughts were just trickling onto the screen as if no keyboard existed. Now I am back to watching the dance of my picky dumb digits. Am I one of those cases that could be more spontaneous and brilliant after a mild car accident? Could a concussion finally bring out that genius bottled up inside of my puny skull? Is this why it is sometimes good to not just sit there with a large glas of water, but with a tiny one, of what the russians call the "small water"... actually not even sit there, but make sure it remains empty at all times?... Maybe?... My swell brain is blocking its own way out of that bone box. A man at the table inside of me is crying. He has not fed his brain properly for what feels like a long time. Last time he "binged on brilliance" was when he had a conversation with a brilliant woman. It felt like stealing bits and pieces of her plate. Is this what it feels like when meiosis of the mind takes place? Is this what it feels like? Will we soon be one of those enraged couples, scaring even new yorkers, even in the street? The couple of I and I... invisible to others, very real to us? A yellow cab just backed up on Broadway to pick up a girl wearing a yellow shirt which also matched the hair of a woman in a very short red dress who wore glasses which reminded me that even the idea of glasses is very exciting to me. And now a jogger in a yellow shirt and red shorts is crossing the same street... no glasses. Yet they are here, in my mind... they are, really, they were just folded up and put onto the night table there, see them? They are that soft blur, right there. It might be time to stop writing this post. Or the downstair neighbors will really have something to complain about. (maybe they should.) ...