Sometimes you find it, days later, just
wandering around, aimless as all get
out, without meaning or purpose any
longer. Like that Hitler hat, maybe after
the Holocaust, or Roy Roger's horse,
Trigger, soiled, without a saddle or gear.
Things just get cosmically loose, and
seem to run off. Not to be confused, of
course, with comically loose, when they
just fall off : the clown in his little car,
naked; the ivy from the mantelpiece,
torn and broken out of its setting,
limp, dying, adjacent to nothing.