Well. That's new. Is it new? It's somehow... almost... Trying to focus on it is at once comforting and disturbing. Years ago he'd smoked weed and watched Contact and laid back to the happy, enveloping thought of being a child of the stars, one part of a fantastic vast whole. The sense of that, in a sober form, is part of why all his life he's been attached to spirituality.

This is like that, but it's not, all the same. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck bristle and stand, and he feels his breath and pulse quickening with something between apprehension and excitement, the darkness and the tour and the others here with him falling clear out of his mind.

Sky feels somehow that he should know what to do, but all he can think of is to bow his head and listen.