The Fourth Oldest Story in the Book

He’s a fidget. She’s a slight. They raise a band of blurs that solidify into a line, Over the years, the lines merge with the horizon and are equally distant. He becomes a slower fidget. She becomes a smaller slight. Lights are turned on and off. Broken lamps are kept in place. And right at the end, everything seems like a lost painting come to life until the sudden all-encompassing stroke of black.