What melancholy magic has turned a multitude into mush? Mandibles drop from shock, an old lady at high altitude whispering, hush. She slips off her white shoes and grabs her tenor pacifier from its stand. Thirty half steps to the microphone, smile on her face, flower in her hand. Oh, how a crowd can melt when they've been dealt such a deliciously delicate blow by a barefooted fairy, not with a clang but a whisper, totally stealing the show. Fools desire distraction and not take to heart. Their faces to their gadgets fall south, ignoring the beauty of fog on a hill and a kitten with a mouse in its mouth. A motley mob settles down and there's hardly a frown as the air in the temple turns to mist. Spotlight, a mark and a cleanse of the throat and her microphone gently is kissed. You can hear a boot lace and a speck of dust taste as the babe bravely stared down the herd. But she played not a note and only one moment spoke these simple and poignant five words. You people are totally absurd.