In Palinode's Palace two parties were thrown. One was held in the imaginary wing adjoining the chapel, the other in the abandoned cloister next to the hedge maze. The following is a conflation of both parties.

Saturday evening: we partied. Oh hot piranha, we partied. People streamed back and forth, along the hallway, eddying in the kitchen, smoking on the balcony, pulled into the living room and washing up on the couch. Until the break of 1:15, when everybody left to go home. That's right, people - run on home. When you were gone and it was just us and the finches, the real party rose up and started boogying across the hardwood. The real party lumbered from room to room, looking for passed-out guests, and finding none, started kicking the crap out of the furniture. Over went the couch. Floor lamp through the tv screen. Books afire. The hassock - unstuffed. The Markie Post poster - violated. Pint glasses smashed and pressurized widgets in Guinness cans fatally tampered with. Who can withstand so much sudden foam? At last, dawn wheeled over the elms and the party, deliquescent, blew away like a few last leaves. We were sleepy, spent, sticky, covered in new material (from the hassock) and finally in full possession of our new place. Later that afternoon we went to the beach.