Yesterday when I was drowsy, my head found paper and rested there. I quite imagined that the words had hopped from their ink and paper confines to nestle firmly in my ears, for I had a most peculiar dream. I found myself in a long hall flanked by plates on either side. These plates were hung by twisted wires and hooks of crude iron. To the naked eye, each plate was flawless, but what captured my interest was the sturdiness of the ornaments. It had become a fact of little conscious acknowledgement that anything beautiful was beautiful in its fragility. Yet, here I was, in a hall lined with plates which looked for all the world as unbreakable as welded steel.

My lack of sleep, I will sheepishly admit must have led to my unfortunate lack of judgment. But what was I to do when they challenged my beliefs so? Each plate watched me struggle through its delicately painted face, goading me with its silence. I lifted both arms high; for high were the plates that my fingers grasped and tore from the walls with the might of a thousand men.

Down! Down! Each plate, heavy as a full grown melon, split in two. Oh! How the plates must have laughed, watching me bumble about—insane indeed! I reached for two more, and another pair, and another. But each time, the pates broke exactly down the middle. How could this be? I asked myself. I took the resultant halves in hand and thrust them down as Zeus would a coup de foudre. And again, I was met with the most unusual occurrence: the plates broke in half again.

I must have been pleased, very pleased, because I cannot recall much beyond the ceaseless rhythm of the breaking. (No, not shattering. Shattering is too pretty a word for that crude senseless destruction.) Raindrops shatter. Chandeliers shatter. Plates break.

All of them. At my feet.

At some point that night, I must have sliced open the delicate skin of my thumb for it began to throb. But for the dull thud of my heart in my pollex, I would have been quite content to ignore it. As it was, I could not help but be torn from my laborious efforts to hypothesize the cause of this breakage. It must have been the plates while my back was turned. However, a thorough inspection of the suspects revealed that my blood had not graced their filthy surfaces. And it was about this time that I awoke.

Thinking perhaps that my woes were behind me, I carded my hands through my wiry grey hair. Oh! How it stung! Hurriedly, I placed my thumb before my eyes and saw my blood ooze out the slit. But before my imagination could take hold of me, I spotted a smudge of blood on the corner of my book. Of course, I thought. Of course.

My thumb began to thud again, demanding my immediate attention. Curious, I thought, how a small incision could spill blood just as easily as a knife could. I watched it a while. Watched the scarlet drip onto my paper and the platelets begin to form, sewing up the skin. But no. I would not let it scab.

That would ruin the fun.

I waited until some blood welled in my palm before I poked my tongue, dartlike, inside the wound. I jabbed the sensitive nerve endings until the cut flesh opened once more like a sliced open fruit. Blood ran over the tip of my tongue, watery and thin. They say blood tastes like copper, but I disagree. Copper is much too dull a word to capture the essence of life. Blood tastes like sweet wine, set to a gentle simmer. I swallowed, feeling my esophagus convulse. I felt the warmth of my blood pool in my stomach and my lips curl up. I must have been pleased indeed.