Uncomfortable with handshakes, milk left on counters, livestock, Lou's taken lately with small magics: walking a frosty commons before dawn, fitting a key in a lock, inspiration. Not the illumined instant, though, the forked lightburst or Godfinger he figures (rightly) either happens or not and by its own design enough to not be worth worry; but transmission, connection, each mind on its own patio reading when the wind suddenly brings - something. A paper napkin printed perfectly with lipstick, a snatch of game from the neighbor's radio. Contact. The wires close enough, the spark leaps, finds, somehow, footing on the air. (Or he imagines it must, and is tempted sorting mass-mailings to spring up, kick, and see if it is there.) Do you pop, sharing a notion, he wonders, like electricity? Or like breathing into a kiss? Or simply like handing a parcel over a counter with dusk coming and streetlights coming on and Mrs Pince nodding at someone. Maybe, he thinks, it's pouring and pouring yourself into the cold crystal space above town, where frost, already forming, tiptoes, awaits its entrances. He thinks: Okay, grunts, now here's the plan; and, Die Geschichte aller bisherigen Gesellschaft; and, Lads, I call this one 'Revolution'; and, This wild feeling you have is Excelsior.