In the Tea sweat lodge, they sat, lounging out on the heated volcanic rock ledges, towels draped over their faces, underneath an expansive roof, individual bodies merged into a mosaic of stone and flesh and water, burbling from the weathered crags dotting the pool, the salt bath providing a curious resistance against the skin, all of the patron's concentration on avoiding the thoughts that chase them.
In one mind, through an invisible connection, the thoughts lay exposed as a virtual representation. The search across all pathways takes time.
The steaming liquid from the wells stabs its way through the flesh of the few in the pool and causes the skin to tingle on those that have knowledge of the invasive behaviour exhibited by the heated brine.
Only one road leads to this place and the lines dotting the way are yellow, a mild warning, both to point, and simple.
At night, when crickets outnumber birds, and the chirp has succumbed to the symphony of miniature violins, the grass seems to quiver at the calm classical mood, stands upright, can't decide which direction to listen.