“Do you want to talk about it?” Llewellyn inquires softly. She has been sitting patiently, while I absorb the implications of a lifetime.
Llewellyn gazes at me quizzically. “I just composed the first line of Ulysses,” I explain.
The chapel/dance floor is mostly deserted, as the action/services here are a strictly nighttime affair, but the Holy DJ is installed behind the Eternal Turntables, spinning the electronic hymns of the faith, and five or six psychedelic dervishes are still furiously contorting their way to dance enlightenment, with and without glowsticks, before him. Holoprojectors cast animated abstractions on every crevice of every wall, and multicolored lasers pierce the thick cloud of haze emitting from what I presume is the Sacred Smoke Machine.