With ba da (porthole) and a bing (ascension), Dep ends her 7 week marathon session on The Floor

[DeP appears to have lost weight. Pizza crust sticks to the underside of the hula-hoop as she deftly step-rolls it in the general direction of Doomey-the-Encrusted, the Porthole, and the Tube. Oui, she can do this all concurrently. Do not blink.]

Alors. This has taken longer than expected, mes amis. I am thoughtful, but not slow. Painless now, c'est lundi. Okay, Doomey? I've saved you some pizza. Sure. I know you aren't listening, nor can you eat it. That's why I made that little replica of you. See? It's crude, I agree....and, well, Rimbaud is taking advantage...[she arrives at the Porthole, balances strangely, just long enough to yank open the rusty-hinged thang and toss out a very sticky, man-urinal shaped cap. Old goat laughter rises from the deluge, then fades as Monsieur Price's The Hottest Spot does not quite meet its fate.]

Next time, he will eat semi-colons for breakfast. Okay, remember the Lone Ranger and Tonto? Two kimosabes in weird costumes doing the right thing. Well... [she hesitates, wheels backward, then pauses until the Tube calms itself before opening the hatch. It always gets a little shakey when it senses something new to eat approaching ...]

Another Michael? Que? I don't control these things...not completely anyway. El Termina-li! Ride this one! Up goes Monsieur Schwartz's Time Out of Tune...buh-buhbubb-bad to the bone.

Rimbaud? Get ye to the hammock, o partly damaged kitty o'mine. [she rolls with grace toward the hammock hanging there in the dim light, on this Floor, her haggard little face pale with fatigue. The hoop stops, seems to lift slightly as though to ease her gently into her cocoon of rest. And she rolls into the hammock, one hand rising to click out an invisible light. The cat joins her. Her eyes close as she whispers...]

Je déclare this quarter, for The Floor, closed.