Rob didn't finish a puzzle

Peculiar.

Rob, a few hours back, had sat himself down with a bag of Jalapeño & Cheddar Doritos, a few cold cans of what was once Dr. Skipper, and a 550 piece puzzle. A short while later, with border completed, he began to notice a few things about this particular puzzle that didn't quite jibe, around about the time we catch up with him.

Very peculiar indeed.

Rob worked at his puzzle in flurries of furious motion; a blur of innumerable failed attempts at piece matching. This impassioned activity was interceded every so often by a few handfuls of seasoned tortilla chip and a lengthy pull of the Skip. As the puzzle established an ever apparent orange hue (a hue Rob was either oblivious to, or ignoring entirely), he found himself paying close attention to a few pieces he had placed aside from the rest. As he turned one of these pieces over in his left hand, a piece cut much larger than any other he had come across, the extraordinary engine of eccentric thought that was his mind began to turn. He picked up the second piece he had set apart and examined it closely.

This can't belong here, can it? No, certainly not!

This second piece, now resting gently on the open palm of Rob's right hand, although no larger than any piece strewn about the floor, was still quite different indeed.

Watercolour!

A lonely, faded, blue watercolour fragment in a box dominated by heavy greys and blazing oranges. A vagrant seeking temporary refuge in a foreign world. The last of a mysterious formation, now long forgotten. You can see the wheels spinning in his mind.

What is your story baby blue? What destined circumstance has brought you here?

With the oversized piece, forgotten altogether, now tossed off into some distant corner to be fecklessly pondered on later, Rob's full attention could be focused on this new stagnant consideration. Something I definitely don't have time for.

Rob watched Judge Joe Brown this afternoon

I'm slipping.

And so he was. This wasn't the first time these two words had joined in thought today:

Rob had recently plucked a spacious couch from its teetering demise, and plopped it down in his freshly rearranged living room. This had turned out to be a decision rife with personal controversy. On the one hand (incidentally, the very hand that had inspired his ownership), deep within the black leather, was found the most relaxing of comfort and physical delight. Yet, on the other hand (which was most probably the metaphorical appendage that had led to the couches original termination) the cushions refused to settle. No matter how valiant Rob's efforts to minimize his movements, however gently he pleaded, however soft his lullabies, as if adhering to an agenda all of their own, the cushions would slowly work him to the floor.

Comfort, rapturous or comfort, lasting?

He felt too few men had found themselves having to endure a similar struggle. Rob had become a man standing alone. A man who understood the perils of an insignificant quarrel between the sentient and the lifeless.

What does it mean?

There is no deeper meaning here Rob.

Rob meets a smoke detector

Disconnected?

He still couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that bothered him so.

I could just fix it?

This hadn't crossed his mind until now, and though he knew fixing it should be an easy solution to the issue, it wasn't. There was something sticking in his craw. It seemed more to do with the situation itself than the actual possibility of his having to replace, or simply readjust this smoke detector. It wasn't even his house. He had merely been floating around here for months, probably drawn by the smoke detector itself. The knowledge of it had swirled around his mind for the better part of the past four months, slowly consuming him. So trivial was the beast in nature, but somehow there seemed to be more. As if this simple flaw in design stood to foreshadow a looming tragedy. Or perhaps a personal revelation that would ultimately lead him to a life of troubled fame and fortune.

Maybe I have been overthinking this? ...Doubtful.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Fifteen minutes tacked on to the countless hours of contemplation scattered about the thirty square feet below the alarms perch. Much of this time spent holding up candles, burnt toast, conflagrated newspapers and other assorted smoking objects to solicit a reply from the thing. Each time met by cruel silence.

What more can I do but wait?

And so he did. Defiant as ever he stood, transfixed. A stubborn sentinel of fabricated wisdom. A martyr of futility. A self-celebrated genius of inanimate philosophy.

Red and black and cream and wires and the casing.

So few conclusions drawn in so great a time. The lethargic pace of his thoughts his Achilles heel in this battle. He may have been doomed from the start.