A tiny drop. Not even a drop,a droplet. Colourless, odourless, tasteless.

It hovers, as if looking for a signpost. Should it go down? That’s the natural direction, the way instinct tells it to go. Should it go up? There’s an urge to soar, to look for something different. Or left? Or right? Forwards? Backwards?

New urges, new pulls to somewhere else, away from this point in time and space. Perhaps it should break up, go in all the directions at once. But then it would not be whole, but a plethora of wholes.

The world shakes, and it reaches for the final destination, its true direction.

A tiny drop. Not even a drop, a droplet. Colourless, odourless, tasteless…

And deadly in that glass of wine

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