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The Big Table

A scene through the window, dust covered pages strewn across a table. The stains of drinks spilled indiscriminately across the pages and the crumbs of dinners long since past, left sprinkled here and there. Then for a moment there's sign of order, pages lain so perfectly that you look in wonderment, and then just as quickly, in fury, you wish to shuffle those pages, crumpling them, tearing them, making them lose their perfect shape, staining them with yesterday's coffee and this morning's breakfast.

Our history is written across those pages and so is our future. The harsh lines we've drawn, forever warp the fabric making it impossible to erase and write a new story. So we tear off a new sheet and try again, only to write the same chapter, over and over and over. Our compulsive works littering the table like books unbound and scattered by a mad man. But maybe someday we'll stop with this madness. We'll leave the pages be, allowing them to turn to dust and in that way allow a new story. Then when the stains fade and the crumbs have long since decayed, we'll for once be able to admire the beautiful lines and curves of the table underneath. Each line a story of where we've been and where we're going, our indiscretions long since turned to dust. Each corner a place to eat, a place to sit and speak. Each facet crafted by loving hands and placed in a universe of yet undiscovered stories.