The food was a championship golf maneuver, or an ace from half court at the buzzer, and held me in its thrall. Maybe something like a realm, where all the villages are phantoms transitioning into an angelic kind of light. An aura? Maybe, who knows. I was talking to Bill, who lives a few towns down, but always opens his shutters to me when I am trolling his yard for fresh bluebell varietals. Bill is a good man, and when we meet at those company parties, we find a few minutes to get away from reality and sew some bright, blue lights in the dimming circuits of our brains.