Boom

Turn the page, the bomb is ticking. All ticks but no tocks, where are the tocks, those pretty little tocks? Clubbed to death like seals, gutted and skinned on the ice and left as a warning for the others. If you hold the wine up to the light and stare at it, you can see universes within. Or your reflection in the glass. They're the same thing, really. Red, deep red all around, caressing and soothing you. Is the glass empty or is it full of nothing? Nothing, nothing and nothing again, rapacious nothing. To-whit to-whoo jug jug jug. You follow the sounds to their source and find a mirror that absorbs the light around it, takes and takes; a black stain. The stain is you, or is it the other way around, and isn't this luverly? You sit at the table and have some tea, amber heat in a cup that threatens to melt you. In the mirror you have no reflection; the cup is lifting itself, the liquid pouring into mid-air and hovering there, sloshing in time with your movements. And you stay there because it's comfortable. Boom.