[right][h2][color=999999]Lost in Translation[/color][/h2][@Auragreedia][@silver21][@Stanifly][/right]

[color=808080]The bottles behind the bar are labeled clearly enough. That's not the problem.

[i]Grandma's Authentic Ceiling Tile—Aged 12 Years.[/i]
[i]Premium Shoelace Extract.[/i]
[i]Imported Genuine Tuesdays.[/i]

A tap handle declares itself [i]Draft Envelope (Lightly Sparkling)[/i]. The chalkboard menu advertises the evening's special: [i]Half-Price Reasonably Concerned Elephants, while supplies last.[/i]

The bartender leans forward, one elbow on the counter. "So did you want the one with the longer commute, or should I check if the ferns are still compatible?" The question hangs there, expecting an answer.

Behind Morgan, the ambient chatter bleeds through the bass. Snippets of conversation drift past.

"—told her the staircase was too [i]orange[/i], you know?—"
"—but only if you fold it counterclockwise—"
"—and that's when I realized the invoice had feelings—"

The words make sense.
The sentences don't.[/color]