Theres nothing new beneath the sun

Theres nothing new beneath the sun- he tought to himself while watching a tiny gray butterfly with severed wings trying to fly away from the corner of the window.

She was cooking pancakes like she used to every morning. She was humming a melody she only knew or maybe she just invented. She was wearing the same light clothes from the night before, and ignored how terribly heard that made him.

There’s nothing new beneath the sun- he kept thinking, and after taking another look at his woman’s fat ass, he shared a glance with the cat. The animal stopped grooming for a while to spit a huge yellow ball of hair.

He seemed to live in a constant state of deja-vu. He felt he was a visitor of the most common places where he shared space with certainty and torment. However there he was… still there (leaving without leaving) Intact. Like that dusty portrait in the living room, like a souvenir of time.

She stopped humming and started bouncing her thick body towards the dining room’s table, inviting him to join her without saying a single word.

The cat kept grooming, indifferent. And the tiny gray butterfly kept insisting on taking a fly.

There’s nothing new beneath the sun. It’s the same old script, recycled over and over. The same play, only, with different actors.

When the first piece of pancake touched the ceiling of his mouth, it was cold… already.