An Excerpt of a Stalled Project, Shelved and Forgotten Or When to Stop Writing Therapy Fiction

Blue.

I was part way through the bottle of whiskey and I managed to open and take a couple of Unisom-- or its store brand equivalent,--when I noticed that the TV screen had gone all blue.  It was the only light in my bedroom, but it seemed bright. Dark bright. The entire room was blue, my hands, my drink, the walls, the floor, the air, all of it… blue. I don’t remember if I was even watching anything, if it had always been at a blue screen, or anything. My world became the color, the color became an idea, a sustained musical note, yet visual, a moment, a thing, some thing, wrapped in blue.

I held up my blue glass, the blue cubes swirling in blue liquid. I drank the rest. I could feel the blue strolling down what had to be my blue throat, into a blue stomach, where it would see the departure of the blue pills I had taken not so long ago; departing my stomach, leaving through the walls, going through to the rest of me until I became liquid. Heavy. Thick. Encased in an idea of something, sleep perhaps—blue sleep to end a blue day of blue.