Those who sit, on whale benches or in the comfort of soft sofas in common coffeehouses. They think and talk. San Francisco. The Downtown Philosophers whistle with the wind and their minds sway and switch with each passing breeze. Jack Kerouac, Kurt Vonnegut. The joy of mental stimulation, a new high, simple curiosity. Forget the Mike and Ikes, deep brown coffee, synthetic experiences. They love real; real matters. Bradbury. They sing, they sing. Music captures feelings better than the human mind can express it. Jack Johnson, handpocket. The Downtown Philosophers like themselves; modesty isn’t worth a poopy lollipop. Kanye. They learn from life, from experiences, from inspirational superheroes of the worn path of the world. Kesey, Cassady. And they write, pointless existence littered with inside jokes. They look into each others eyes and smile. They see what matters. tunnel vision.

My head rests in her lap, eyes closed. I think I’m lightheaded with lightheartedness.

Those Downtown Philosophers. Morals lie with the conscience. existentialists.