There were half eaten saltines, and a glass of wine on the table as the clock struck one. The window was partially open and the white-lace curtains embracing the window were dancing; they mocked him, they smiled, they laughed as he watched them. He was kissed by wind's breath, as drops of water escaped; one by one, they were liberated from the confinement of a water-stained fountain. The ticking of the clock, the trickling of the drops never ceased in cerulean afternoons. The sounds never slept; something, everything, nothing at all, always crawled into the reverie that was his existence. Tick, drop, tick, drop, pulsed through his veins; it was their rhythm, that reassured him; but he no longer danced, as curtains usually did.

Like the drops, she had managed to escape.

He was only half alive; his face was sunken, too fragile to shave. His face would shatter, and he knew that no one would bother to reassemble his half-shaven portrait.

He licked his purple-stained lips twice, before his head hit the floor.

Tick.

Seven days before, what seemed like morning, came, and violently shook him awake. Someone, some thing, smiled above his head as his eyes were once again becoming acquainted with the light. He blinked twice; it was gone. This someone, or something, had smiled, but it wasn't comforting. His body shook, but he wasn't cold.

He awoke in his clothes and as he lifted his head, his eyes caught movement. He followed it through a violet door.

Tick, drop, drip, clock; he found himself in front of a mirror. As he entered, his eyes caught reflection on the opposite wall; the smell of the room was liquor to his senses.

As he stared at the opposite wall, he noticed the small curls that lay on the soft skin of the reflection's forehead; he drowned in every hue of the pearl-white eyes that stared intently into his. He noticed one, two, five strings of color that rang of flawlessness as he examined every angle of the heavenly-carved face. Every feature was chiseled with that of holiness and he felt love for the beautiful creature that gave him such attention.

He examined beauty with utter infatuation; he was Narcissus, in the waters of a fountain.

Abruptly, a sharp echo disrupted his obsession. Slowly, like wax melting, the beauty began to drip; the chiseled features were now being replaced with those of a beast. There were no curls in the mane of this proud stallion, and the reflection went into a chaotic dance; the glass shattered, he ran, tripped, and fell through green tiles.

He landed. The temperature was considerably colder; his breath took a white form as its warmth began its love affair with the cold air. He walked out of the alley, and found himself surrounded by giants of an emerald city. He watched men, clean shaven men, taller than buildings themselves, walk down sidewalks and cross streets with shoes so shiny, they could blind an already blind man. They paid him no attention; he adopted the significance of an ant, as he dodged their steps.

He was David with no stone, in a city of Goliaths.

As he watched them pass, he found himself craving the smell, the taste, the power these clean men exuded. He wanted their height, he was desperate to drink their benevolence; he was a child, craving their candy. The color of the city reflected from the sun, and seeped through the hues of his face; he envied the giants, and slowly, he found himself needing their poison.

Drop, clock, drip, tock; it began to rain. The sidewalks gave birth to a sea of red umbrellas, in a fraction of two blinks. The men remained dry, while tiny beads of water were determined to drown him. Slowly, the streets were four, five, seven feet in water, and the crimson umbrellas laughed as he began to swim, left, right, left, red. These men walked on water, and their red instruments created harmonies that mocked him, just as the curtains did.

They laughed, and like the water that began to fill his lungs, anger filled his fingertips, filled his hands, filled every hair that clung to his frail body. Anger had him by the tail, and was pulling him deeper; he let out a muffled whimper. The red images were contorted, as he watched from below the waters. His consciousness was now dismembered; only his open eye could see the smell of the sky blue waters.

Suddenly, the water began to drain in downward spirals; He became a water drop and escaped from a water-stained fountain.

Drip, tock, tick, drop; He felt heavy. He was now dry, but he was stoic, expressionless, and useless as he sat in a room of busy bees. He produced no honey, despite his wings. He sat for days, his dishevled hair was now made of serpents, and his reflection had made him of stone. The serpents grew, but he was indifferent; the sweet, yellow honeycomb now engulfed him; the golden liquor ran its fingers across his face, over his brow, and he tasted their nectar as each finger crept into his mouth. He was confined to their sweet torture, and as his eyes closed in honeyed-ecstasy, he opened his eyes, sharply, to the eyes of another, to the eyes of a toad.

Its gaze penetrated, and for a mere second, he thought it a reflection; but the busy bees were gone and he was now in the belly of the beast. The big fish had swallowed Jonah.

He began to eat the orange interior of the beast; he was disease, eating at flesh; it was his only escape, and it tasted of freedom. He devoured the beast, like the beast had devoured him; juices dripped from his chin, he grew fatter, but the flesh grew sickingly sweeter. But the taste took a new flavor; the juices were now bitter and swines were swimming in thick saliva. Drip, clock.

Drip, clock, drop, tick; spilled wine dripped over the counter as the midnight blue had tucked the daylight into bed. Drums were now beating, blue notes crawled into his ear; they whispered of notions that are only allowed in darkness. His vision was hazy, the ideas, sinful; where was he?

He watched her and quivered. Drip. She was young, and better yet, she was unused. Drop. She was all his. He craved her flavor, he craved her infection. A thin, golden string outlined the curve of her neck, he licked his lips; he could ignite her - he could bring her to life with the movement of a finger. The drums pounded, his fingers twitched; this wasn't love, this was lust. He was an addict. He grabbed her, struck his match, and breathed her in; the cherry cigarette tasted of brimstone.

Tock.

Tick, drop, tick drop. His eyes fluttered to life, and were greeted with a familiar darkness. The curtains were no longer dancing; he felt vulnerable as the clock now struck seven. He lifted his drunken body from the floor; his glass of purple had spilled as he had fallen.

He refilled it with water and prayed.