bricks in walls

a drop stooped in a bucket. it was part of a larger ejaculation that included nights mixed with mathematics. the sum total of all liquid spilled spelled out a proof that proved the predictability of non-formulaic metal. that said: the drop looked down between buildings, puffing a light cigarette, standing within the bucket but still upon a 3rd floor porch balcony. he burned the butt solely to shine, an east india brooklyn pale ale as surrogate sitter. as a drop copulates with the rest of the water within, he dropped the half finished stick down to the gated alley below, watching it's every move. as it hit, (as did the drop), each ash scattered horizontal to mimic the needlessness of concrete. the formulaic metal faded out. his vision blurred brick and stone and smoke together till it made text that held sense. shaking his head, he returned inside, still inside the bucket.