Enlightened people talk too much.

Oh,
the tranquility of their own voice;

the meditations on their every observation.

The understandings in their sympathy,
the empathy in their epiphanies, Oooo…

How much they understand,
how much they care and hold onto patience…

Until you decide to recline your seat.

Whatever you do, like, just –

Do

Not

Recline
Your
seat, when sitting a row ahead of enlightened people who’d just come back from doing ayahuasca in Maui, baby, I am telling you, like,

Not even an inch, not
one

beat.

Those fuckers? All light and life?

They will kick and they will cough and they will ring for attendants and they will whine and they will want to fuck the Chakras out of themselves in the lavatories in spite of you –

especially if he’s in dreads and from Spokane and she’s a Pseudo-Puerto-Rican wearing a gender-bending dhoti and designer-matching pair of puttee’s, ya know – 

real zen-faire shit,

off the rack at Rag and Bone, ‘It spoke to me,’ or ‘Burning Man was yesteryear and yesterday,’ their journeys the cis-het men’s podcast in lieu of needed talk therapy, I am telling you,

Heed 

Caution.

Do not recline your seats when sitting a row ahead of a couple of cultists sitting in comfort plus flying home from Honolulu.

You will inconvenience these most enlightened spirits, 

And they will get
Fucking

Pissed.