The tiles have a series of cracks, a map of years. Years reshape, transform into twists, gnarls, fissures. Without the years, he thinks, the present wouldn’t look real, authentic, contain beauty. The present, always polishing, rebuilding, gentrifying, trying to reface the past. But one can’t forget the past, shouldn’t, even the bad stuff, especially the bad stuff.
Evil is a beauty. You must look at it with careful, discerning eyes, wise eyes, eyes that cry without distorting reality, eyes that know evil can be unstable, eyes that know it can take a bite out of you when you least expect it. Sometimes, you must bite it back…hard.
He places his hand over some cracks, cool, slightly rough, rests… until a spot becomes warm.