The Fig Tree

Scarily Jason

"Not Everywhere is there."
Jason slammed an old cloth on the shelves, expressing his complaint about the dirt that entered his nose by coughing.

- You see, kid? If you get too caught up in something like this darn soil, it'll clog your throat the same way.

And he coughed again; and shifted the ladder a little further down the library and started dusting the shelf where "When Nietzsche Laughs" rested.

- Huh? What's up with you now, kid? What do you want to ask again?

Although not much time has passed since we met, but he has memorized me line by line. Maybe a lot of time has passed. Maybe it has been a long time. Maybe from the day I was sitting on the kitchen counter and thinking of the French tsunami, he knew me.

He danced the ladder over shelves and jammed the rag up the water pipe and untied the drops from the pipe necks and set the drops free. Into the sea and among the mermaids, and then further down. It tore the shell and reached the mantle. Occupied the nucleus.

The cold magma, which had just been reheated, destroys the moisture at once. A little further, the stable of angry blue horses gallops wildly again. A stream, a way, alone. It goes towards France and makes there blue. Both blue and water itself. And it goes back to the counter and is alone with me. Emptiness, humiliation, necessity.

-Look, kid, do you see this book? If its pages fade out, they will print a new one, or this cake, if I put my finger in the cream and ruin it, I could go back to the kitchen and make another one. Not everywhere is there, you're taking it too hard, kid.

He's right. I'm following the French news right now. Jason knows me.
-March 27th