Bench

 

Solitary bench, as per the specification. This is what they asked for and this is what they got: a single bench. They got a grey bench; the most dead concrete. It has 48 individual interlinked right-angles set to a degree. This bench is built to specification with perfect lines. This bench is always cold. It clings to moisture; rock hard and wet. No sex happening on here, btw; it’s punk: sharp hard and numb. It’s always clean.

      They didn’t do it again? Not by the bench. Terrible crime; gruesome witness.

      Oh look there’s a plant over there.

      And a pond.

      What defines us is the space we fill; the outline we leave; vertices cut in three-dimensional space. We are the thing that separates the things around us. Our form is what the empty space can fill; our sketch in the scene. What surrounds us, makes us.

     So why can’t I talk about that nice pond next to the bench instead? There’s fishes in it.

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