The bright light seemed to advance and he focussed on it calmly. It was like a tunnel drawing him in, only partially aware of the silhouettes in the periphery. It was the opposite of fear; wonder, strength, lucidity. This meditation brought him supreme comfort. Creativity flowed through his being as the dark figures' lips recited in unison. Through the hazy looking glass they bobbed like buoys under a brilliant moon, silent and graceful. Peace could be attained in this place, and nowhere else it seemed. "How did we get here," he asks himself. The distractions are few and welcome. "Hmm, front row - she looks like a Mary and is quite possibly the Antichrist." Here he exercises his petty thought crimes with impunity and encouragement as the magic fingers pluck in an order they had before.
His purpose is no longer in question, at least for the next hour, and he remembers the last time he sat down with himself to have a similar dialog. It was last night in a place far away but exactly the same; his clandestine solitude behind an army of millions. In such moments, unencumbered by rationality, he entered his universal thought window; an unexplainable unified consciousness of some kind. This number somehow evoked such irresistible nonsense. He imagines his next poem and lets an open chord fade into surreal silence.
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