It is like the sun coming through a stained glass window.  This light upon his closed eyelids.  As within this deep illumination Dave moves his point of concentration to find interesting geometric patterns shape-shifting only—  no—  what is truly interesting—  what really compels is more the area around them, the ever-changing color spectrum—  not so much the crystalline images themselves—  although these, too, splashing and morphing and diming and glowing and pulsing with themes mirroring those coinciding with, becoming concurrent with the music—  patterns if more compressed, if more geometric—  like classic Media Player visualizations—  but rather the degrees of luminous darkness which surround them—  Dave noting how they seemingly breathe, emerge from recesses incredibly deep to become lighter darknesses—  patterns of rich and deep emerald-greens receding to return as noctiluca amidst the peals of laughter—  the natural gravitational weight of obumbration—  deep sea creatures of his consciousness phosphor- and bioluminescent in bursts erratic gelling, working to make of things an eerie underwater blue fissured with a network of lines stark like bolts of lightning crackling not white but black as fissures spidering across some first century fresco.  Alert, Dave feels at ease.  And he registers his condition, his state of being, as pleasant.  Funny.  Pleasantly funny.  Amusing and so pleasing to consider.  And all the more so for not demanding of him the requisite energy necessary to laugh. 

               Although there is someone laughing—