Hildegard of Bingen the most musical abbess of the year 1097 a.d. met with Jung the unconscious detective and Ginsberg the howling poet for lattes at some Starbucks in a vibrating city on a shimmering afternoon.
Angelic minuets keep flowing, effervescing through my chakras like tonal champagne . . . the glowing femme declared. Beams of ethereal light infuse me, tsumanis of energy tempt me to dance right out of my habit.
Ignoring the possibility of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public, Alan mused behind his hornrims . . . I get what you mean like I have felt the same perfusion of joy watching cans of peas and ayahuasca dance with talking bananas at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn, can you dig it?
Still suffering from his Freudian hangover, Carl reframed them both . . . Any conclusions or convictions drawn from such experiences may not self-verify because your introspective identifications attempt in vain to concretize the amorphicity of decentralized psychic sensations which reach conscious awareness only at the expense of extension.
What did he just say? Hildegard asked Alan. I have absolutely no idea, the portly poet answered as he doodled an intricate mandala on his hemp napkin.