milk

Everything in the world changed when he stirred his milk. Tiny brown mountain-scapes floated calmly across the top of his glass but they would not sink. Around him were an open cupboard screaming to be closed, a rack of dishes whining for a bath, a bread bag suffocating laboriously from the dry air flowing into its unclasped top, and a toaster oven groaning under the weight of a club sandwich and ready to call it quits after this one, final DING; but he was stirring his milk, and everything was silent. He was engulfed by the mountains, in another place.