The Dining Room 

She is diverted, intrigued, bored, distracted, numbed, puzzled, all of those, dampered and undampered like a chimney, and senses her internal confusion drift zepellin-like toward conflict--or descend brumbling into a muffle.  To concentrate herself she thinks about her blood, railroading on its own complicated schedule in all directions to and from the heart; oxygenated, deoxygenated, arterial, venous, its individualized cars slowing to squeeze through capillaries; its instinctive headlong suddenly looming at a curve, potentially at odds with her seated stability.  She begins to worry that merely shifting her arm in a contrary direction, her head, her eyes, might cause slosh and delay.  She fears for the sanctity of her autonomic system, the dangers of voluntary movement, wonders if the rolling tide of her may be all--that the momentum of life force at the summit of her shoulder will crest and pitch her tumbling from her chair, a construed tangle.  Is she flue or vehicle?  Launch pad or mud room?  What is the meaning of will, with self-directed essence only a skin away?  Overwhelmed, she begins to close up mental shop and retire to waking sleep, her contrary mind awash in the suspicion she will never again sleep properly.

At some point her body registers a need for more air in the coal furnace and embarks on a familiar strategy to achieve it, opening her mouth for her...she hurries a hand over the gape and says quickly, "Too funny!" to the Ambassador at her side who has mustachioed something apparently clever through his accent.  He smiles appreciatively and laughter buoys the table.   This, amazingly, solidifies her and she is able to coordinate a graceful turn and tip to her other side, where Archduke Ferdinand is going on about something.  He is passionate and as serious as his epaulets, but she can’t make out what he is saying.  Well, never mind, she tells her various soft tissue systems, stifling yet another yawn, someone will catch me up or I’ll read about it in the Times.