Stories, Not Paris, or, the Negation of a Hunt

It did not finally get warm in Chicago. Of that there was much debate. It got moist and tepid and live rabbits that paused from noise beside the stadium were matte in the dusk from the light behind the skyline that fell and rose in different points everyday by 4 o'clock. Everything in addition to the rabbits was happening in Chicago that spring because the news was still and the influx of locals on the el and two old men two warm March mornings exited an elevator to speak adoringly.
What? said the conductor.
It's perfectly logical, said the old men.
What? said the conductor, who was pressing a button where his voice had said stop over and over his fingerprints gathered into a populace standing in a fraction of the front car listening to the passengers to whom he wanted to say "Clybourn" and "Belmont" saying their own Clybourns and Belmonts, leaving their own fingerprints on buttons outside in restricted places outside restricted areas.