Wild Inji ver, shared time and sweetness, not all of it upon plates served. We dined upon satay and smiles; I, sipping Shirah and savoring Schumann while he turned the great wheel, cleverly disguised as a ring upon his finger; the cogs of the genesis machine, interlocked and spinning, a metaphor most apt.
I found him nestled within a cellar, sipping Tokaji aszú, placing secret lines upon tiny cards. He scribes realities with a fey smile. Vishvakarma, engineer of gods and architect of delights, sitting at a bamboo table, crafting new existence that is at once familiar and utterly alien.
The puzzles of space and time, his playthings; the evening passed in jovial displays; universes winking in and out of being as I followed the giddy dance of design and delight, as he smiled across the table to me; making mysteries, shaping them effortlessly while I observed in wonder.