Walking past a dream I overhear:

"...I saw a man once.”
“Was it your reflection in a puddle?”
“No. It was a Sunday afternoon.”, answers the tall man to the short , to which the short man asks, “in the street?”, the tall man shakes his head saying, “On a ladder, crying to the slush.”
“In the snow?, whatever for?”
“With the sun beating on his forehead like so many times before and because they wouldn't listen, otherwise.”
“Like many times before, eh? ladder, you say? did he speak?”
“Oh no, drank, he did.”, replies the tall man. “And what were his tastes?”
The short man eases his face closer, the anticipation he feels for the tall man's response begs him to.
“Words of all sorts.”
“Did he get drunk?”
“Drunk with life, indeed!”
“Was he alone?”
“No, he was acompanied by the slush. They loved him.”
“The slush did?”
“The slush, yes. Walking back and forth stopping, listening, paying him no mind whatsoever.”

“Then, how did they love him?”
“Oh, copiously! They loved the life out of him, ‘til he died. See, he was of anonymous amusement to them."
“Had to have been of a broken heart.” “More like from time squandered. Up on the ladder.”
“The slush, they killed him, then?”
“Well, he killed himself, actually. Up on the ladder. Caring too much about the slush...”

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{Diffident:Reserved in manner}

{Alchemy:A medieval chemical philosophy having as its asserted aims the transmutation of base metals into gold.}