How did she look?

How did she look? Asked I – but the eggs were all uncooked and the plants on the windowsill never bloomed and there was no inspiration to do anything, to start with and in situations such, it is hard to notice or to talk about how someone was or how someone looked – the time never seems to feel right to tell someone else how someone else looked at some point in time – nostalgia, flashback in the past tense in the last tense when the feet travelled all around the world leaving footprints in every grain of salt that they walked upon being thankless to the runs of ladders kicking it away after a quick rain and shower in an afternoon of May after scones and tea like T. S. Eliot who takes tea in the garden with ladies on pink and white checked cloth spread on top tables observing ground bound accidental stars and the rippling of throat muscles and the shaking of the breasts, hysterically screaming tennis balls of guilt stuck inside throats of the crowing cocks or crows that crow where the mirror reflections of mirror reflections of nouns be verbs too in a world where everything is perfect fitting like the pieces of a puzzle of the jigsaw completely solved spread on top of the same table, pink checked white, on which was once a teapot and a tray of scones where Eliot the gentleman wooed a lady or two in the margins of the large white sheet in which he wrote the love song of J. Alfred the P who wore a frock on some blessed days and kilts on the other talking about Michelangelo the martial art turtle with a mask on its face and a band around its eye (of the storm of a probable early morning culpability)