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He took a bit of a walk over to an art museum, which had just finished a new Dal� installation. He felt like those melting clocks, or the skeletal horse, or the twisted stones, like the stones in the garden. He followed his stomach out of the museum, where he immediately sat on a bench, and leaned back, and closed his eyes. What can I do, what can I do, what can I do was all he was thinking.
Time was just slipping right by: when he opened his eyes it was noticeably darker. He got up and was about to leave when he spied his reflection in the uneven surface of a stone pedestal. He looked terrible. He almost smiled. Then he saw the statue, which had been overshadowing him all this time: a woman formed of dark, polished granite, with her head bowed. The puddle had formed as though the raindrops were her tears. This was too much, he was used to the world being cold, but not so darned gothic. He was disgusted with his own self-pity, and went home, choking on the surfaces of dark thoughts.
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