He's sort of beginning to consider, no, yes, ponder... Seeing the blooms everywhere, finding himself waiting for them to wither and die along with the frail signs of an upcoming Spring. He drinks way too strong coffee and dreams of a day when anxiety attacks aren't lurking around the corner. Perfect colours don't mix well in his nightmares, he can't take the pressure and reverts to black and white - there's that rare moment when he finds company a gift; the paradox of a person who feels lonely, but at the same time is addicted to solitude. Contemplates blowing the dust off a book he should have read a while ago, but he can't find the courage to open it.

He'd drift off to sleep if he felt tired enough, but he's being kept awake by the smile of a woman whose face he can't recall. Maybe she's just a conjuration of his own imagination, maybe she's his way of compensating for his social void. The chalice is filled with the wine that could drive the image out of his mind, but he doesn't drink it because every time he does, the image is merely amplified.

In the end he tells the image to go fuck itself as he turns up the volume until her voice can't be heard anymore.