He floats aimlessly amongst a sea of barista/artists, aspirations beside him, drifting gently towards what may, pray, be the land of not-as-obscure-ity.
Dragging his carcass onto the hot sands, he takes in the smells of the beach of just-starting. Scrambling to find a stick, he begins scribbling in the dunes, hoping - praying - they stay long enough for others to see.
On a side note, I enjoy a nice vinaigrette from time to time, sprinkled over fresh tomatoes and basil. With salt. Salt is good.