Sometimes.Somethings.

The shimmer of a knife on cold granite. He pours himself a glass of whiskey, minus the ice cubes. The naked bulb on his kitchen ceiling flickers on the fibrous blue veins. The ants seem to deviate their path for another optimal option. They cannot find one. Trying to resume, the line hits the glass without the rocks. The swivel of his gun's barrel. The absurd key on the table. He wonders and in a state of intoxicated consciousness, draws a circle with his blood-wet finger tip. Circle; a paradoxical and magical geometric form. He draws yet another. Concentric and more concentrated. It colts. He shifts his line of sight. The shimmer of knife, tarnished by irregular colts. Another 90 down. That makes it 360 for the evening, he calculated. Weird.

The mosaic floor. 20 yards from one room of solace to another of intolerance. A clash of heart and mind. An absolute torque. Who am I ? Who was he? What has become of him? A pint of intoxication, more. He colored outside the lines. Blurred. Hazy. Obnoxious. He sat on his big brown sofa. Still wondering, about the distance from kitchen to the drawing room. From him to me - to him, again. So what I seek for. Do I walk for myself, or is it for pure pleasure of Transition. Evolution. Change?
And what is change? Ice to Water. Water to Vapor. And back into the cycle of intermediate transitions. So what happens to my blood? Would my pyre suffice - to rinse off my existence? Or would I need some more wood, to help vaporize my blood?

They injected me with another dose of morphine. Nice. Alluring. Yellow daisies all around in pastures of green, I had a yellow house - a red car- and a brown dog !
Dreams. Trance. Fusion.
The transition did happen. It just took 5 ml of that drug and I was in heaven.
I was lost. I had lost myself... The circle was nowhere to be seen. I was in a sphere...