The retreat into a stern routine for the day is average for even the most successful of individuals, structured for the sake of achieving an aspiration which lingers in all persons whom desire felicity within their near future. Awaken, eat, work, eat, and sleep. Simple, yet satisfactory for the simplest of men. Trent Hensor, a man of pure excellence on behalf of his dedicatory behavior, follows this regimen to the utmost perfection. As any ordinary man, he strives for financial stability and serenity in his own shelter.  This goal which he proposes to himself, effectively constructed his entire livelihood. However, such construction of a plan which he adopted for the rest of his life, according to majority opinion, may have been a hallucinatory projection on his part. The instance of this being true, is something even Trent Hensor has no knowledge of. 

Without fault, Trent carefully unsheathes his coverage from within his place of rest for the day of anew. The sun gleams through his windows, emitting lights of fluorescent purples and yellow oranges. With the ethereal settings that have been produced by the solarity of the sun, Trent releases himself from his bed intending to enter his kitchen within his household. As he treads with little to no stumble, he proceeds into the kitchen sighting a singular pomegranate upon his table. Perplexed, he approaches the fruit, questioning its presence being placed atop his central table in the kitchen. In the midst of his thoughts, a blur of characters appear in Trent’s path of vision, materializing into a series of digits presenting the time. With alacrity, Trent grabs his items of importance, including his keys, bags, and working papers. Now in possession of these items, he leaves his residence in search for his means of transportation to his workplace. As he approaches the shed which contains his transportative vehicle,  the ground which he steps on formulates its color without stability, and its construction waivers in structure. It would change and alter with bricks, flowy waters, pavement, and other indefinable constructive components. Merely psychedelic. Yet, Trent pays no such attention to his surroundings, assuming the fluctuance surrounding him is normality. 

His journey to his workplace, specialized in investment and other financial subjects, was rather mediocre in enticement, at least in accordance with his mind. He has not fairly taken into account that several snippets of his venture were blurred in detail, no sign of traffic was visualized, yet was occasionally flickering into existence, and that the landscape had been continuously rendered into unidentifiable formats, inexplicable when applicated into reality. Once Trent had arrived at his point of designation, pedestrians would be perceived by him in a physical manner only if they were entering the building of his working center. Quite peculiar, for these instances may only occur in dreams of those whom are asleep.

Entering with no regard of his setting and appearance, he struts in the crowds of blurbs which have gathered in the main hall of “Investor’s Tech”, inscribed upon the building which Trent has occupied an employee’s position within. Abruptly, the mounds of blur accumulated in the main hall began their materialization into definable human beings, administering no surprise within Trent.  Continuing his travels into his office of work, he realizes a familiar presence approaching him from across the hall which he is walking in. “Trent, my man! How was your day yesterday, hopefully the prices we managed yesterday didn’t bug ya.” A man of rather flamboyant exposition exclaimed.

“Oh nothing much Alexis, you mustn’t fret about my days. I wasn’t too affected by yesterday’s closing bell results. Our job is to do and speak of nothing else, it's how we get paid so highly.” Trent proclaimed, diverging from the original topic of the conversation without much thought.

“Oh come on, a little rest wouldn’t hurt ya. Everyone’s got their own reactions to what happens, work isn’t the only bullet point to your list of life. Either way, it's good you're doing alright. Focus more on yourself, won’t ya?” 

At this point, Trent has disabled his focus upon his friend Alexis, whom stands tall and grand in front of the short frame which Trent himself possesses. In the description which Alexis holds as his physical appearance, he wears a rather spectral suit, quite rare in settings which involve marketing and stock exchange. Along with the suit, his skin complexion is rather tanned in color, painting a canvas to accentuate his luminous greenish brown eyes. “Hey, Trent, listen, what I said wasn’t supposed to take you too deep into heart. Now come on, we got work to do, you like doing that don’t ya?” As Alexis attempts to regain the bare attentiveness which Trent withholds, he realizes the lack of direction which Trent is currently expressing, and leaves him after an extended time of silence prevails with no interruption. In the evaluation of Trent’s point of focus, he is beyond the threshold of “zoning out” per say, but more so in a state of observation regarding a subject of interest. Through his visionary, he identifies a visage, sensually a pomegranate, whom is positioned directly parallel to his body. A great worths of a distance away, Trent is infatuated with the subject’s expression, thereby being as aforementioned, a pomegranate. He examines the figure, extensively learing his eyes upon the colors ambiently emitted by the insatiable subject, even becoming disconcerted with the reasons as to why this favorious object is present within the building. In its most immediacy, the structure perceived as with crimson hues inscribed into Trent’s mental imagery, enspied his gaze and travels forward in the direction of his placement within the halls.

“Salutations good sir, you must be one of the investors stationed on this block. I hope you do not find any fault in what I am discussing? I am but an intern, so I am relatively new to this environment. School can only get you so far!” The blotched, vibrant object materialized into a less distorted man, encased with dark skin and artificially dyed crimson violet hair. Trent could only muster a series of mumbles in the vicinity of this man which he found enticing in areas no human being could describe.

“Indeed I am–say–could…red.” A string of misplaced wordings erupted from the quivering orals of Trent, grave difficulty submerging the speech which he has learned in his 27 years of existence.

“Sir, are you okay? I hope it’s not the humidity which is affecting your breathing. Do you need any medical attention?” Fretfully exclaimed the man, overtly signaling to several coworkers of the predicament which Trent has befallen. The ignorance which Ignitus held, the man which Trent has retreated into the overall sensual embodiment of, was greatly in blame if referencing the disposition which Trent has staked as his entire reality. The emotional interface that he held a great reliance towards became odious in description, trails of imagery input from his path of sight structured into preposterous fantasies, and his diluted perception effused his entire state of mental rest. 

Suddenly, all a dark, and all an opaque endless sea of nothingness settled into the scape of Trent’s mind. No thoughts, and not a single expressionless sound could be heard in the solitary confinement which Trent has situated himself within.  Abruptly, a brisk pop of imagery substituted the darkness that enveloped the mind of Trent’s, presumably structured as his home. Furniture mingling into warped objects of no legitimate architecture, the walls blanch in color, and the floor interchanging between a multitude of structures. The only observable stagnant item within this clatter of mess is the pomegranate left in Trent’s repository of memories.  

The sky was slowly transitioning into its darkest stage of night, the moon illuminating the distressed face which Ignitus held whilst he walked along the paved road of the city. The events which had occurred during work repeated without secession, leaving Ignitus perplexed and useless. He momentarily paused in his walk, hoisting his bag off of his shoulder in a flurry to grasp an item from within. From the tenacity at which he held the item, he loosened his grip, and revealed a pomegranate scented perfume bottle. He applied a quick sprit of the liquid onto both sides of his neck, acknowledging the sweet, luscious scent which was kept aloft from the vapor of the perfume. He continued his stroll, disregarding his surroundings and momentarily released from the stress which had burdened his body from the incident.

Trent has not budged in the place which he stood, gazing at the pomegranate as it pulsed with vivid vibrancy. Yet the illusion that he illustrates is ill representative of his current predicament. Realistically, he could be seen walking briskly in an eccentric manner. There is no such pomegranate, nor table, nor home encompassing his entity, but an endless road littered with vehicles and the occasional lamp post. His eyes are dilated, but unfocused. And his head lolls to the side, mouth agape as if in a state of shock. However, he was in no shock, but administered into a field of fantasy based off of nothing but his own mind. In the return to his unwavered dream, he is seen making an advancement towards the pomegranate, believing he has finished the monotonous regimen that he inscribed into his life for a sense of normalcy and need for functionality within a society; wake up, eat, work, eat, sleep. The pomegranate that he senses in this visual conjuring of his, is the nutritional supplement which he will ingest for the second time throughout this day, wishing to feast in the very moment without hesitance. As so, a knife appears within his hand. Grasping the handle, he ardently lifts the knife and brings it closer to the epidermis of the crimson fruit, oddly humanoid, laid directly in front of him.

As a minute or so passed during his walk, Ignitus decided to listen to an audiobook which he has taken a great liking towards, mostly about a man turned bug. Without much analytical thought, he has always figured that his past circumstances were applicable if referencing the literary work. Along with plugged ears and a content, eminent nature expressed on his face, he feels as laxed as ever. His body devoid of sensually depicting acrimony in his vicinity, he fails to notice a man possessing a strange gait, accelerating in speed just behind him. As the man approached nearer, an object could be visually spotted within his hand as it gleamed under the light post which the man himself passed. Ignitus was still unaware of the odd being just a breath away from him, giving no reaction once a shearing, cold object pierced his back.

The suspicious man, with little to no remorse, obstructed the spinal area with such virulency beyond his physical capabilities, that he left Ignitus with a blasphemous infliction deconstructing his entire torso. His plunge into the back of Ignitus’s left the two of them rocketing into the cold pavement, leaving the two to rest in the midst of the cool night’s breeze. Labored gasps were heard escaping from Ignitus’s mouth, bleeding profusely from both the point of injury and his oral cavity. With little strength, he trailed his eyes onto the perpetrator beside him, almost immediately recognizing the man. Trent Hensor, the employee which he has recently met and developed a concern over, has critically damaged his entire physical and social career. Suddenly, an elapse of tiredness overcame his body, dozing off into a rest with no wake in the morrow or even after.

 Now in a cessation of movement, Trent still pertains to knowing absolutely nothing about the events which have been executed, events that were started by himself. In his mind, he is visually projected as slicing open the pomegranate, immediately disappointed with the find that the innards of the fruit contain no beneficial nutrition but an empty shell. He looks blankly at the open casing of the pomegranate, and never stops continuously gazing at the cracked object, even once his visionary perception fades in darkness.