They loom over acrobatic, smirking teleporting giants, outlines of black slipping through space where our greyhound eyes see only a mist of void. We catch a mantra midway— only to drop it, dismissing it as nature’s grumbling. Behind our assumptions lies a quiet conspiracy poured, not spoken, for those who truly see: a cup set aside for consumption. Knocked now, a color in motion now pours a river of chartreuse. Our thirst quenched, our lips a drone, searching for the mousse to latch onto, to taste the secrets we almost never dared sip.