“How is your grammaw, Buck?” Mistah Yancey axed. He sat back down with his wine.
“Grammaw Daisy, she doin’ fine, reckon, I ain’t seed her in a spell. She ain’t do no vis’tation in prison, on accounta she don’t drive. But she did call me, and she sent me pitchers. In the mail. She gots a liver thang. Doctuh say she need pills, but you know how she is, she discotton to takin’ pills.”
“Hmmm,” Mistah Yancey said with a vague but comfortable cluck of his tongue, a sound that gestured at and acknowledged the futility of combatting the creep of caducity, that communicated and demonstrated his compassion at a socioculturally appropriate level and that constituted and signified his acceptance of the inevitable entropy of the soma and the pneuma. He sipped deep from his wine. “You look well. You worked out in prison?”From Buck on Bottom
the soma and the pneuma
“Hmmm,” Mistah Yancey said with a vague but comfortable cluck of his tongue, a sound that gestured at and acknowledged the futility of combatting the creep of caducity, that communicated and demonstrated his compassion at a socioculturally appropriate level and that constituted and signified his acceptance of the inevitable entropy of the soma and the pneuma. He sipped deep from his wine. “You look well. You worked out in prison?”