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Line 1: Cloud was sitting at Seventh Heaven drinking a Fernet on the rocks engaging in light conversation with a cocksucker he’d never even met about a Queen’s Blood play-in game that he’d - this particular cocksucker - requested to be put on the TV at the bar. Well, actually Cloud corrected, for the record, that he’d actually been reading a few pages of Timaeus prior to all this, making a few disparate notes, finding himself puzzled at the sensory information that continued to be relayed into his brain. Cloud basically alleged he was flummoxed about the sensory information that became, in some way, relayed to what he guessed was his brain? - how any of that was corroborated, but more so Cloud contemplated the static nature of said images - that’s what he was specifically contemplating when a guy with a round-ass face leaned onto the bar, seeking to close his tab, obviously excited to tell the bartender that he may need to show her his ID, just because he took his wife’s last name and hadn’t had a chance to change his license yet? The patron with the round-ass face noted how nice the bartender was (Tifa!), but what was her name again? He could definitely display his ID if she really needed, just because, again, his last name was different now - taking his wife’s name and all!
Line 2: Of course, Cloud noted, that it was clear that no one gave a fuck about the printed name on a credit card in that bar, and Tifa, for her part, didn’t exactly seem like she was ramping up to suck this dude off just because he was a radical feminist. For Cloud’s part he was still, you know, attempting to get behind the blunt sensations being smuggled relentlessly into his so-called conscious existence. Everything was an image to some extent, right Aerith? Touch itself was a fucking sensory image. It was a quaint Spring evening where Cloud felt more or less destined to philosophize, having started drinking wine in preparation for a Friday night dinner, only to have Tifa bail last minute, because she needed to pick up a bar shift - leaving him completely free to continue this wine drinking in a ritualistic way that would be conducive to philosophical ideas.
Line 3: Yes, Cloud continued to Aerith, it was basically only via drinking alone, but in a ritualistic fashion, that he’d achieved any sort of philosophical inquiry. You couldn’t just sit at a desk and become philosophical, at least not for Cloud! Maybe some people could! But, no, not Cloud. He’d imagine that there were probably a litany of possible ways of becoming philosophical - like, for instance, for the round-faced albino chap, perhaps telling Tifa that he’d taken his wife’s last name, maybe that could be seen as possibly ritualistic in a way, a gateway to some sort of becoming philosophical. This was actually science, Cloud told her he thought at the bar, successfully avoiding making any eye contact with the round-faced man.