The Pianos of Destiny

Each person has a file. Each file a number. To be put in order. All afternoon. The Left Fist lazes louche in a pocket, is laughing a little, and mockeringly muttering. Eventually says,

"... Monsieur le Fist, tonight the stars will fall out of the sky, will they, like you said yesterday? In the form of grand pianos, as if in a Tom & Jerry cartoon? No, night shall fall without unusual incident, and you shall blush for speaking too soon..."

Back into the pocket he retires. I try to say this answer:

"Each person here is a number, on this or that file, this form or that office, a million and one times over. To speak a truth is to say: they're each as detached as each other, as detached as the moon. Yet the moon is laced with lines of stars, who sing around him a different tune: that we are not all alone, but all joined up, as if on one whole painted canvas, or a child's dot-to-dot."

Even a silly song or post or horoscope can sing, I know, of such a thing. But he will not listen, and anyway, is it true? So instead, I Fist, shall wait for nightfall, and see if that does in fact come into view.