Hour is late. Light is dim, maybe candle-cast. Conversation is by turns raucous and pensive, bantering and murmuring; necessary audial ingredients to influence distillation, to provoke emergence. A moth frenzies like a harbinger. Hands are grasping and etching emphasis into the air. Fate feels attentive to, even commanded by a singular raw convergence of kindred souls.
It gains shape. Its heart churns. It glows and its wings spread. Serially molting gossamer wings reaching the length of a gorgeous table: the table bearing the plan, celebrating its birthday, offering it to posterity.
Big effing plan! Its history is already racing! The lot of you are brilliant! Don’t surrender to self-satisfaction! On to the next one!
Maybe add fuel, first. Cold cuts, crisp baby dills, smoked gruyere, olive ciabatta: thunked onto the table and dug into without a pause from plan-hatching.