• He sits, staring blankly at the tray table seven inches from his face. He leans his head ever so slightly to the right, then ever so slightly to the left, watching the black line jump the sides of his nose. He has watched it every day of his life, always taking it for granted, never questioning its presence. But it is here, on his hands, his pants, his shirt, his nose. It is everywhere, a defining edge, showing the ending of one yet the beginning of another. It changes from points of view, disappearing in your vision while still existing in your friend’s. It is there but cannot be touched, cannot be felt by the ones that wear it. And everybody does. Every single visible thing has at least one black line, living or dead, big or small, animated or stationary – all do. Yet no one notices. It is such a common thing that no one cares. It exists; it must have a function. But it cannot be felt, cannot be touched, so how can it be tested? How will its existence ever be proven worthy?

    Maybe without it everything will just fall apart.