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S T E A M S E A M S Today’s white plume of steam becomes Miss Success d’Estime in a nightie if you look and look away into the queue of satayloving coupon-holding tourists expelling their reviews of bream baked a la Manet. Tomorrow’s plume might be dreamproof , a caterwauled ghee of electrons in play by Faraday you breathe in only once, Saladinsuspect , no believer. Make hay as if the meme of chance has fled with your nightie and left your wrists tied and your fingers dreaming , while the teapot gleams. 42 ...

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