Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.
Hues of blue form under the brash silver surface
Twisting and contorting, growing to the minute size of a thimble Dancing on the brink of existence, the liquid squirms
The swirling mass forfeits its struggle
The world blends into a single image, blotches of color dotting the view
A cool porcelain surface destroys the spinning drop Millions of miniatures scatter themselves
Eventually, the small drops reunite at the base of the sink Swirling together for a final time
Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.