A strange sort of setting for the kind of conversation it was. You'd expect, along with the lights and the murmur of voices and the quick, light footsteps and the sharp clink of glass meeting glass, something else.
It was a conversation I've had with myself, and the route it took was familiar, but at the same time it wasn't, not quite, with unexpected turns and maybe an occasional stop sign, and a brief pause before hesitantly revving up the engine again, pushing foot against accelerator increasingly firmly.
It was important. It was important because before it, what I saw was something that was trying valiantly to be a painting though it really wasn't more than just a few vague smudges. But after, after - it hung before me, jewel bright and linseed scented - firmly in its place, in the castle in the clouds.