Two greenish-yellow sponges waiting near the edge of the grey tarpaulin, that is, on the slope caused by the uneven structure of whatever lies beneath. The slope is closer now than it looked before, and more demanding than when the sponges were not yet there. I mean, from here the slope is higher and steeper than when I was standing up and looking down at the grey tarpaulin from above, the two sponges still in my hands.
A tarpaulin without sponges probably attracts less attention than a grey tarpaulin with two yellowy-green sponges, which are wet now and possibly, more slowly than the eye can see, slipping down the slope. My intention should be to remove the sponges, thereby returning the tarpaulin and whatever lies beneath it to a before-time that includes me while at the same time making all parties invisible, including myself.
These are two brand new, previously unused sponges. Their holes are connected to all holes everywhere, and are older than human error. It is not my part to concern myself with whatever is beneath the tarpaulin. My task concerns the visible surface only. I have thought this through as far as it goes. It is a curse. Whatever happens here must always happen at the edge of the grey and white, or to be more precise, at a distance, longer or shorter, from the white border that hems in the grey part of the tarpaulin.
