An ivory-shade marble wall was shining starkly, attracting dark eyes.

How solid it was – only the sculptor knew, the one who carved the marble out, putting it into episodes of hardships and sharp cuts.

The marble knew that shape and heaviness were interconnected. Scratches turning into scars on it made its patterns more marble-like, the way it was.

The way it was:

marble couldn’t simply exist without cuts. The wall would never have turned out so tall and firm without a touch.

But what if the marble could move, as I do?

What if the marble could simply

say no?