There was a hole in the table where he could see through to the fresh carpet below, hidden from sun-beaming and soot dragged in by foot. The edges of the hole were worn smooth as if by file and so appealing that he was drawn to slide his fingers in, communing with the table in a way too sensual and complete. He was aware that this was a distraction, albeit an archaic, more tactile form of distraction. Even so it was only that. There was no new information for him to acquire from it. There was no snark to impart upon its existence. Nothing to win from the moment other than a brief moment of sensation. Of feeling. Of being.