Delirium of the Endless

A small aquarium glows blue in the back room of a shop that is closed for the evening. The fish move through their glass world in slow, purposeful arcs. Delirium sits cross-legged on the floor before the largest tank, her hair changing from orange to green as she counts the silver flashes behind the glass.

“One, two, three, four, seven,” she says, then frowns. “No. That’s not right. Seven is hiding behind the castle.” A fish emerges from the plastic battlements, and she smiles as if it has just confessed to a very minor crime. Her mismatched eyes follow it with complete seriousness.

On a shelf nearby, a clock ticks backward for three beats and then remembers what it is supposed to do. Delirium does not notice. She is thinking about how fish sleep and whether the ocean ever dreams about being smaller. The questions seem to make her sad for a moment, though she cannot quite say why.

A drop of water climbs the outside of the tank and settles on her fingertip. “Sometimes things get lost,” she tells it. “Not because anyone wants them to. They just go somewhere the map forgot.” Her voice becomes very clear on the last sentence. Then the drop turns into a tiny blue butterfly and flutters toward the ceiling.

Delirium watches it go, delighted and a little wistful. She takes a crumpled scrap of paper from her pocket and draws a map with no roads, only circles and a small door. Behind the glass, the fish continue their patient swimming while the shop's fluorescent lights hum a tune nobody has taught them.

A city sidewalk shines after rain, reflecting red traffic lights and passing umbrellas. Delirium stands beneath an awning with a paper bag full of mismatched buttons. She has decided they are important, though the reason keeps moving whenever she reaches for it.

“This one is a Tuesday button,” she explains to a pigeon. “And this one used to belong to a king, except he wasn’t king yet.” The pigeon pecks at a crumb and remains unimpressed.

A bus splashes through a puddle. The water hangs in the air for an extra second, displaying a miniature skyline upside down. Delirium looks at it with sudden sorrow, then laughs when it falls.

She chooses a purple button and slips it into a crack in the pavement. A tiny violet flower opens there as she walks away, carrying the rest of the bag toward a street whose name changes when nobody reads it.

Delirium’s realm shifts between impossible architecture and a sky filled with handwritten thoughts. Staircases lead into teacups; a meadow of glass grass whispers in several languages. Delirium sits on a floating chair, trying to untangle a ribbon that keeps becoming a river.

“It’s not supposed to do that,” she tells the ribbon. “Or maybe it is. Sometimes I forget which things are supposed to be impossible.” Her hair turns pale pink as she thinks.

The river runs briefly through the chair and carries away a little paper boat. Delirium reaches after it, then stops, distracted by a distant bell that sounds like a forgotten name.

She folds the ribbon into a loop and hangs it from the air. The realm steadies around the small act of concentration. For a moment, every color falls into its proper place; then a new one appears.

A public library stands nearly empty before closing. Delirium occupies a carpeted corner of the children's section, surrounded by books about stars, insects, and the history of spoons. She has stacked them into a tower that leans without falling.

She opens an astronomy book and stares at a photograph of a nebula. “That one is lonely,” she says quietly. “Or maybe that’s me. Sometimes pictures borrow feelings.”

The librarian announces the closing time. Delirium looks up, startled, and begins gathering books in an order only she understands. A loose page flutters from one volume, covered in handwriting that has not been written yet.

She tucks the page back inside and pats the cover. “Not today.” The tower settles neatly into a stack, and she leaves a single star-shaped sticker on the return desk.

A deserted carnival turns slowly beneath a cloudy afternoon sky. The carousel plays half a tune and falls silent. Delirium wanders between empty booths with a spool of bright string looped around one finger.

She stops at a game where the prizes are dusty stuffed animals. “You’re all waiting,” she tells them. “Waiting is a funny kind of falling.” One plush rabbit tips sideways, as if agreeing.

A gust carries the scent of popcorn from a stand that has been closed for years. Delirium laughs, then catches her breath as a memory crosses her face too quickly to name.

She ties the string to the carousel's brass pole and lets the spool unwind behind her. As she walks toward the exit, the ride begins to turn, slowly and without riders, completing the tune at last.

An ordinary kitchen contains three chipped mugs, a bowl of oranges, and a goldfish in a round tank by the window. Delirium stands over a kettle, concentrating with the solemnity of a scientist approaching an uncertain experiment.

“Tea is leaves telling water a story,” she decides. “Coffee shouts. Tea remembers.” She drops a teabag into a mug, then becomes distracted by the way sunlight bends through the fishbowl.

For several seconds she watches the goldfish swim. Her face softens. “You’re here,” she whispers, with the relief of someone who has been afraid of a loss that has not happened.

The kettle clicks off. Delirium pours the water carefully, without changing its color or making the ceiling melt. She seems pleased by this modest achievement and carries the mug to the window.