It was 3AM. There were bubbles.
Soaring soapy spheres filled the room, or at least my corner of it.
Each breath produced a translucent prism that refracted light in a way that can only be matched by an oil spill at a car wash.
A rainbow of colors shifts and slides around the fragile exoskeleton of the gleaming UFOs.
The larger orbs appeared to be the most impressive to the lookers on. I, however, found the greatest accomplishment to be the capturing of small or medium sized suds for the purpose of breathing larger and more bountiful life into them. A single two inch glob would be transformed into multiple spheres, some of them even larger than the original.
The casual observers contribute coy commentary. They talk not only about the bubbles, but also about the financial state of people on the street, and the socialist implications of the latest blockbuster. Drugs--it has been decided--are not good for you. Each agrees to this proposal, though some only through their sarcastic retorts. We know that toxins alter our perceptions of the world and put everything in a distorted light.
Meanwhile the soaring beacons transfigured the luminescence of our living room lamp into a miniature Aurora Borialis. The peanut gallery gazes upon the bubbles in an entranced accord. The gliding colors enrich our resolve.
It was 3AM, and there were bubbles.
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