Two people walk into a restaurant. The room is spacious, ceiling hangs high, white are the walls, rich cotton white spilling sparks of light over a surface of ebony wood. Tall stone kraters surrender their stiffness to iridescent vines surrounding their centres. Irresistible cattails pierce through this utter divergence to taste what looks like to be oak flashing in beams across the very same ceiling. What's left is just air that takes all the dark corners. Tasty air, as if filtered through fresh wood then bathed in a dried old wood syrup. There aren't any windows, but the space is bright like the beginning of a summer's day. A grand rosewood table rests on an elliptic spruce. A foundation narrower near bottom and going all the way to the top to merge with its wooden companion. No tablecloth to hide the beauty, no hopes from crockery. Further here, there isn't any life. Top of the table is scrubbed clean. A large rhombus of self-reflecting glass watches from behind a bar without drinks and no bartenders. Ashes clayed together to form scoria rise into a thin area of support. High enough, above, stitched to the two adjacent wall structures a skinny chrome wire shrills as it greets the air. Beyond the wildest tension was applied to both ends earning the string what could be the quality to split mountains in half.