Hour is late. Light is dim, maybe candlelit. Conversation is by turns raucous and pensive, bantering and murmuring: audial ingredients that invoke inspiration, that rouse emergence. A moth frenzies like a harbinger. Hands are grasping and etching emphasis into the air. Fate feels attentive to, even excited by a singular raw convergence of vision-kindred souls.
It gains shape. Its heart thumps and burns. Whomping gossamer wings reach the length of a gorgeous table. The table bearing the plan, celebrating its birthday, offering it to posterity.
Big effing plan! The lot of you are brilliant! Breathe in the thrill but don’t pause! On to the next one!
Maybe you need some caloric fuel, first? Why not liverwurst, smoked gruyere, crisp baby dills, New Seasons three-seed baguette? Or whatever makes you feel plannish.