The hanging witches my grandmother once built for me revolved silently on the ceiling, dragged around quite randomly by the air from the movements of clothes my mom shifted at regular intervals from the ironing board to a nearby chair. George Harrison sang and played guitar at the next room, in his cute, unmistakable style. Blow away, blow away, blow away. My dad smoked a cigarette whose smoke sometimes rose fast and straight, absolutely vertical, to break at some height into a messy pattern of beautiful eddies. Basic gas dynamics of laminar and turbulent flows before my eyes. He spilled some coffee from the cup he was about to take over the tablecloth. Too much angular momentum exerted with the spoon, as he absentmindedly waited for the lumps of sugar to dissolve.
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