E. is going over his list of twenty-two names, himself included, and comparing it to the twenty-two major arcana of the tarot deck, which is also spread out next to the list of names.
Z. passes by, tepid whiskey sour in hand, on his way to the chair beneath the bold-printed sign. He pauses for a moment, taps The Hanged Man, gives a wink to E. before moving on.
"That's not what it means, Z. It's not about suicide. Not everything has to be perceived through the interpretive prism of suicide and suicidal ideation."
Z. only shakes his head while his lips discreetly part to form the shape of a small grin, a grin that suggests its bearer possesses some undetected wisdom impervious to debate.
"And actually," adds E., "perception is key here, The Hanged Man comes freshly born into this world with uncorrupted vision, he would dash your grim philosophy into pieces if given a chance."
Z. pauses now, that tiny grin given over to a bit of widening. Z. turns, stares at E.
Z. says to E., "Perhaps my intention was to disclose something of myself. Maybe I possess that vision you speak of, and manifested my clear-seeing into the bold-printed sign which the rest of you struggle to keep out of your field of view."
E. has no response to this, knowing that the discussion, like most every discussion, has entered into the plane of uncertainty, of the unprovable, the untestable.
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