The flood

by maxminteam088

In the beginning, there was a hardwood table.


Out from a backpack on the floor comes a role of tracing paper. From another bag, a set of colored pens is passed around. Each person clears the center of the table of coffee cups, napkins, and wipe up wet spots.

Go.

Four different colored pens attack one another’s creation. It is a chaotic waltz constantly advancing an idea from precariously verging on non-existence, to a developed concept. Every stroke and confused wad of colored lines chips away obscurity from a final solution. Hours pass and the paper stretches further across the table, creeping past the cups, racing to the table’s end, languidly touching the floor, then doubling back as it lays on the ground. The purer the idea becomes, the more illegible the drawings. In the end, long after the coffee cups are dry, the participants lean back satisfied with a final product: a sloppy, un-dimensioned blur only decipherable to the creators.

quickly, I realize alongside the basic progress of the project, there is an element of human progression. Thus, I address the causes, not symptoms.

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