Kitchen
I see my own reflection in the sink. The lines are uncertain and the colors are bloated with a pinkish red tint. Brown speckles of food and other assorted crap float by the surface. My reflection's face is bulging, somehow. It becomes rounder and rounder. It then expands, stretching over the water's surface. Then, the water rises from the sink and falls to the floor.
The kitchen floor is soaked. The water is now reflecting the sickening yellow of the walls. A red fish, with his guts open, flops around the floor. This is my pet fish. It seems to have escaped from its bowl. The unblinking eyes of a fugitive, caught by an unexpected death. Can fish feel that kind of emotion? Am I just projecting? Who knows. Anyway, I have to mop the floor.
The sun is blinding. Through the window, only white. Not even a sky, nor any kind of silhouette. Only the white of the sunrays. I feel my irises burning, but the sensation is somehow comforting. There's no evidence of the outside world. Only its memory. I can live with that. As long as there halcion around, I can sleep. Not only at night, with my eyes closed. I can also sleep while I'm awake. What a wonderful remedy.
I sleep through the pain and live through the peacefulness of unconsciousness. Does that phrase make sense to anyone but me? Does it even make sense to me? I don't care. I'm unable to care. I'm loving it. The plates are shining. The bubbles rise from the sink in a uniform manner. They reflect my little world. I gaze at my own reflection. After I'm bored with it, I can end its existence with a touch of my index finger. Pop it goes. Pop, pop and pop.