Oren

He carried always a sort of nervous discontent, surrounded and uneasy. The sharp edge of a butter knife. Accusing colleagues of tyranny and of spawning a generation that would stampede the white knights.

“Loveless,” he said. “The waking moon stirs uncontrollable anxiety, like iced tea mix that refuses to dissolve at the bottom of your glass. And speaking of iced tea, is there nothing more aggravating than
when someone (perhaps your little sister) scoops back into the container with a wet spoon?”

The inevitable lead-back into a discussion of world politics, crunching under the heel of unethical diplomacy.