Sitting In A Studio. 

The soundtrack of the gamelans would play, or the meditative bowls would ring after a hit, or it would just be voices. 

Sometimes, they all happen at once. 

The gamelans would sing in the background and grow softer, as the mundane conversations drown them out. 

“Eh. I don’t know where are we.” 

“Ehhhhh. Tell me la.” 

“Sigh. Oh. So it is like that? How come? Why? Can you please explain?” 

And you realise that these are not genuine questions since they only occur while the master speaks. But I only speculate. 

“Oh. So interesting. Then what happens after?”

And after these answers have been given like holy water to each individual, but she spilt her share on the ground. 

“These coloured pens look so nice on paper. What kind of colours do you like? Nice right?” 

And the words just crowd out all the thoughts, the concentration and the air in the room. The words fly around like dust that irritates –  useless and insignificant. 

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