I don’t want to argue with you, bud, though I’m afraid I will if I have to. Even though I’m sure you don’t realize it, we go back - a long way - on the football forum, and don’t you just know it there’s few enough of us who hang over there.
You step toward an oiled pile of words with that, a toilsome vacuity (to dine, to feast upon bread of comrades, if only we could cease the gnashing of our teeth, and taste a true word!) into which I am sorely tempted to cast myself. Yet let us refuse to debate definition, because too soon we rank out one another over debased and devalued niceties, debating “at table,” as it were, a soupçon of the prideful tears of impoverished gentility, their stilled hubris, on your part, perhaps (or perhaps on *mine*), and a nice service of ressentiment on my part, not unlike tripe heaping upon itself in a madness of strangely greyish self-glory (or is it only the assertion of self, and not the true thing itself?): now who quells the rising tumult of discordant vice and virtue, who rides the winding waves of our heroically petty, vain disputes, encompassing the empty hall, with chairs unseated all this while mocking us? The food fight of our rivalries, shouting into darkness and never calling the other out from it, our vanity of formlessness, as it were, and yet let us lay it down at the last, together, as brothers once again in the final end, the meal of strife finished, and we never more to take up our baby backed knives in play unchildish, knowing a strange form as we clashed.
EDIT. Anti-complacency league baby!