Conjunction

A long, sharp knife beside the laptop, shining with a thin slick of lemon juice. Beside it a half drunk bottle of beer. In the air above, one of three lights on the chandelier – a pool of glowing glass, with the bulb a solitary bather. Then back down at table level, my upturned and askew reading glasses. These four things, perceived in quick succession, prompt me to sit down – to put on my glasses, to drink the remaining beer, to notice that the lemon juice is now only faintly visible on the vibrating knife. I cannot help looking up again towards the chandelier light, but suddenly it no longer makes the same impression. It is just one of three chandelier lights. It no longer enters into relation with the three things on the table, which in the same instant suddenly drift away from one another and grow opaque. There is nothing here. There is nothing to see. The evening darkness has descended. The rain has stopped.