My legs are resting on the coffee table...

Astounded by the beauty, he was at loss for words. He looked at the child drinking her porridge. The beats of the drums were deafening. Everybody went about as they did everyday, but as if they had been taken over by a state of trance. Each person in the room appeared to carry a load on its back. They carried everything that was theirs and what was solely theirs. They didn’t let go, and he saw the form of the imaginary force envelop them. They became what was theirs and that defined them and who they were. He turned around to look at his back, and there was emptiness. Saddened, he wept, thinking that he had nothing that was his; he was empty, undefined, and seemingly inexistent. He tried to grasp on empty spaces of other people’s aura to borrow some of their energy and impart it onto his, but he was just clutching on emptiness. He could see every particle of the porridge going from the green plastic glass onto the child’s mouth. The beats of the drums were getting louder; they were engulfing the room, his sentient being and they were shaping into an embodiment of love. He rushed towards the created form, and danced with it. The music went around him and through him, piercing his heart. He looked at his back, and still emptiness. But the broken piece of his heart was floating with the beat of drums. He lay a finger on the girl drinking the porridge and his finger dissolved into the skin of the child. He sipped on the porridge, and his tongue and lips became porridge. His knees became the wood of the table he was leaning on, his feet became the cement of the floor, he looked at the rest of his body and it was turning into the misty air it was surrounded by. Emptiness had overcome him and so the disappeared man became everything that was present.