perhaps observing a child in a library

Aimless life. A simple statement. Even as in defiance of metaphors a red oil crayon held awkwardly and as if by accident traces discontinuous curves, lines, zigzags, elipses, indifferent to the distinction between the paper and the table, disrupting any continuity, and then breaks, tearing the paper, the tear and the break do not mean death. A concentration of saliva exacerbates the redness of the crayon. The paper is rumpled, about to be thrown away, but then comes a change of mind: the rubbing of the drop of saliva arouses curiosity. The paper is folded with meticulous care, old creases smoothed out, as much as it is possible. It is then, perhaps, that a sudden desire is felt: to taste papercrayon, red papercrayon on the tongue. It takes time. Perhaps longer than a family dinner. Impossible to compare. Papercrayon is not food. Food means eating-to-grow. An experiment. Papercrayon tastes exactly like papercrayon. The experiment might have to be repeated endlessly. Or abandoned. There are some red marks on the table and no hint of an image. It's time to go.