Empty glass

The glass is empty. The cylindrical walls encompass no more than air... but the mystique of that fact eludes the unimaginative. To the dreamers and the artists, there may be air, but within the air float whispered wishes and soft laughter. Scents are imbedded in the network of words and secrets flowing in and out of the glass. They tumble down the sides in a rush of energy, crashing to the table and spreading throughout the room. They dance gingerly within the walls of the room until a door flies open and all chaos breaks loose. Old scents battle with new and are eventually overpowered in a tumultuous war; phrases and shouts and vague noises bouncing off the white walls, whirring past paintings and furniture, then slamming against them only to fly in the opposite direction. Then, the door slams shut. The sound echoes throughout the room, expanding in ever widening ripples until the final ripple hits the glass. The glass totters on the edge of the table, glaring in the light, emotions pouring out through the top in a terrible, musical dance and suddenly; a crash echoes throughout the room.