Pool_2

"You see, it's important. There are men on the river crew. My job,.." still panting, "I'm supposed to assure their safety." He rambled a description of his supposed meeting place which was punctuated by observed landmarks and speculations as to ways in which the description might be misread. The old man's lip edges drooped, his brow frowned, and his eyes, yellowed of age at the edges, held steady through this flood of rambling about the river crew. His response was measured and slow, and most carefully articulated, "Son. Are you totally stupid?" With that he closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree. A trace of a smile was on his lips. A murmur, "Got eyes, can't see," was the last barely audible sound he made, except for occasional lip smacks. The old man looked, in his repose, the way Marcus had wished he could feel. A fretful night of poor sleep topped by unrewarding phantom chasing didn't allow that. Reading and rereading the newspapers, he bought both the local editions, Marcus again stalked the river edge. "Got eyes." He even found the exact spot where mayor Thomas Stone Junior, with a shovel, posed for the picture at riverside, with his two next ranking officials. "Can't see." But, there was nobody here! For no reason at all, except fatigue and the totality of the vacuum of answerlessness, random recollections floated in and out, and then, "You trust too much." Oh damn! But this was the right place, on paper. Plato would have gotten it. There were realities of concept that did not manifest in tangibles. No actual chair would ever be the exact tangible representation of the intellect's conceptual chair. Between the reality of conceptualization and implementation into representation, there would always be deviations. Flaws, improvements, whatever. Everything real, represented as real, was conceptualization, intellectual paper, in the papers.