Oscar knew he was a stored tile in the already well paved world. Of robust floors, which many kicks were taking and as many seemed to can hold. He was waiting oblique, in a cellar only animated by the feet which were crossing the slit. Treading the asphalt.
There were in truth tiles less interesting than Oscar. In fact someone had pick him. But not observed him. Oscar presented a simple pattern, but of ancient wisdom.
Then came her. Grabbed his neck between the arms, and Oscar understood he had never breathed. She was total beauty. Beautiful to cry, for Oscar, who diverted the look before it became moist. Beautiful to materialize, for a guy for whom the tears were a real estate. Rateable, as the ingenuity.
Falling from that high costed two edges to Oscar, who got back oblique in the cellar. To peer at the passing feet. Outside, on the robust asphalt. Where everyting has a cost and nothing an identity.
Oscar at heart wasn’t a romantic. He accepted the scar without melancholies. She instead comprehood herself crystallized in a now fatally solid bubble of solitude. But never knew to host the infinite in her terse look. Simple but of ancient wisdom. Where nothing crystalizes, because one lives in a warm waterfall. Finding constant novelty in the eternal hug. One doesn’t get used to loving.
