there is a purple wall he stares at sitting in a purple chair in a purple room of a purple house. the street is purple, the cars are purple, the trees are purple. only the sun is as black as his heart. he stares at the purple wall and grips the arms of the chair with a fierce determination lest he fall out of it. he has been falling for quite some time, there are deep scratches on the floor where the pulp beneath the finish feels naked. it sounds very much the way hands do rubbing along the brick wall of a building that has had hands much older build it from scratch. he gets up from the chair and walks up to the wall that takes as forever to reach the way wrinkles take a great amount of time to leave their impression. he leans on it and it, in turn, shudders. the whole house shudders, the street shudders, the trees shudder down purple leaves that curl into crackling things when they touch each other. the sun cracks, a mirror without shade, white light bleeds through but everything remains purple except for fragments bled with static from a radio in the bedroom above him. a conversation over a very short amount of time, beginning-middle-end, end-beginning-middle, end-end-end, a loop without a station. through the window he hears her, he lets go of the wall. the wall falls, the chair falls, the floor above him falls, the building falls. everything into broken pipes and split frames around his feet, standing in the middle of a purple square of rubble where the streets have turned suddenly black into this sound.