Thoughts flooding, bouncing off the pale ceiling. The fluorescent light does its best to bring illumination. But the true light arcs towards the pitch placed seating. Holding vessels, beings, bottles of bright white consciousness.
One such being scratches his head, consults with the highest powers of the universe and asks cordially for the toilet.
Another sees stars, stellar bodies and solar winds that meet in a molecular moment of time as they sip their coffee in comfort
The other is a mystery, but not quite the misery. For beneath their cloak they parade boisterously, naked to sights and sounds unheard of since creation. A crescendo of high pitched wails and an ecstatic waltz….But if only we could see
The Philosopher's Poet 