Perrier

The eye has been boasting again.

"The things I've seen! Satin, slipping from her shoulder like a shadow, that moon-white skin shining by the window. Both from a garden and a long-haul flight - a V of wings, ranging across twilight. Upturned glasses at the Savoy, and pop goes a cork. A face of wonder under a firework."

"Stop there," said I, Fist. "What's that I detect in your corner, Eye? A tiny dot of water, lingering and pointless. Tell it your stories: perhaps it will act as a prism, where this random rainbow of sights converts into a beautiful light, which then changes into a cry, a tear, in which the meaning of the sum of such moments - all the confusions, Eye, of your kaleidoscope - becomes perfectly clear."

Next: Nothing happended; except, I flicked open another can of fizzy water.