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Description
The woman with the parasol walked across the moorland; over the grass, her blue skirt flitting over the idyllic meadow as a butterfly moves over a flower; the white edges just barely above the ground; not quite touching the earth. She was walking from the east; the setting sun in her eyes, the red rays blocking her view; she could see little but a vast wine-red expanse, with small trimmings of grass and anemones through the red fog of light; she just caught little glimpses of them here and there, through the fire-colored rays. For the most part, she only saw the sun; she winced, trying to peer through it's bands of light; however, she didn't dislike it; it was not like she needed to see; you only needed to see if you "weren't sure" -as she often like to put it- of your fate. You only needed eyes to assure yourself of an insecurity; something you weren't sure about the fate or nature of. And there were no insecurities -no uncertainties- in a perfect world; her perfect world.

She was really quite content to keep walking forward; to keep walking towards the west; "into the sunset", as she heard them say. She was entirely pleased with a fate to keep going forward -as a human should- and not looking back; just to engorge herself in the bliss; the happiness and joy, the eternal contentedness.

But then she heard a voice coming from a distance; a quiet but somehow striking voice coming from the east.

"Madame Božilović!"

She looked back; she had to. She couldn't bare herself not to look her opponent in the eye; and, so, she looked away from the sun's warm embrace.

It wasn't really entirely that much worse looking to the east; you didn't get the warmth on the solar rays on your face, but, without the obstruction of the sunlight, you were able to look at the meadow in it's completeness; stretching out far beyond, rolling green hills and pastures; little areas of white and baby-blue coloured flowers occurring in small patches.

Silhouetted against the red sky was a tree; she wasn't quite sure what sort of tree; it was small but sturdy, with emerald leaves and a thick husk of gnarled bark. It wasn't so much it's physical appearance that mattered to her, however; it was the emotional appearance; the experience and emotions that came up within her when she thought of it.

She could remember sitting under it; with the others; discussing the world. They discussed everything when they were toying with a decision; every little event within their lives had an effect; from a first time at the park with your parents, to your first kiss, to the last time you saw your loved one; the last time you saw them smile.

Eventually, when everybody was finished sitting under the tree -discussing the world as a concept in more detail than they ever would've imagined under normal circumstances; weighing concepts against each other; "good" against "bad"; thinking and talking about every little facet of the concept of "existence"- they sided with her; the woman with the parasol. They sided with her ideology; that the world wasn't as beautiful as it could be; it could be better without all the sorrow and hate and pain, all the unsavoury parts of life. While, normally, complaining about life itself is something reserved for children and melancholics, this was a particularly unique situation; a situation where the fate of the world was in their hands. They could cut out all the unsavoury parts if they wanted to; make a perfect world. That is why they were sitting under this tree; trying to decide if they would change the face of existence itself.

Back in her present, but a short time later, after having turned from the sun, the parasol woman turned to the only man who opposed her and her ideology; the man that was shouting to her from the east; the only man who felt that, perhaps, we shouldn't cut out the bad bits of life; a viewpoint she once thought foolish; and still found illogical, although perhaps not as much so as before, "Mister Yvon. How do you do?"

The Frenchman corrected his appearance before speaking; making sure to straighten up his tie and to pat down the wrinkles in his blazer, "Božilović, I know I lost; I know the people chose happiness over sorrow; joy over sadness. And that is only fair; I suppose it's to be expected. It's what a human should do; and I don't mean that in a cynical way; I don't mean to belittle you", he paused, running his long, strong, rather masculine fingers through his hair, "it's brilliant; you did what you should do; you completed the human agenda", he looked up at her; into her eyes, "but I must ask you, as I must know; do you regret it, even a little bit? Do you regret making a perfect world?"

"No", she answered matter-a-factly.

"I see", he looked to the ground; he did this for a few minutes, as if trying to come up with some kind of concept to discuss; contemplating on what would be best to say next, "what does your watch say?"

When the group -all but Yvon- had sided the parasol woman, they decided something; they'd give themselves to think about their sorrow; they were thinkers, after all; pensive people; or so they'd like to think. They wanted a few seconds with hate and sadness and pain before they vanquished their evils for good; just to view the feelings' nature for the last time before they were no more; before they were brought to extinction. And, so, they decided they'd set the parasol woman's fob watch for fourteen minutes; fourteen short minutes to live in this painful world, before it all changed; before evil was vanquished for good, and the "human agenda" -a name with she, personally, had always despised, even as she embraced it; she always preferred "life's agenda; as it was but the ambitions of any logical lifeform- was completed; the agenda to create an ideal world.

Pulling the fob watch out of her pocket by it's bronze chain, the parasol woman looked through it's glass covering at the dials underneath; reading what time they had left.

"Two minutes"

"Two minutes? Damn, Božilović, you hardly gave us any time to -masochistically- enjoy our suffering; is that a loss you can deal with?", Yvon said this in a rather humorous way; but, at the same time, he was attempting to make a serious point to the woman.

"It was 11, originally", she put her watch back in her pocket; taking care to put the main body -as well as the chain- fully into the cloth sheath.

"It has been eight minutes already?", Yvon looked away; away to the east; back to the tree that they, a little over eight minutes ago, had sat under.

"Yes", she walked up to Yvon; and reached out, putting her left hand on his shoulder, "I-I'm sorry, Yvon"

"Do you truly think we will all be happy?"

"Yes. It is a world with just happiness, after all; no sorrow, no sadness, no hatred or pain", she looked over his shoulder; at the same tree he gazed at through his grey eyes, "you'll love it, Alexandre"

"But how would you know love without loss?"

She was confused by this response; it made no logical sense to her, "what do you mean?"

"Do you believe that pain and joy are completely independent; that they exist as their own?"

"Yes; of course. That is but common logic"

Turning around, pushing her hand of his shoulder, Yvon turned to the woman; so that he was looking her in her eyes.

"I don't think so; it isn't to me", he looked to the ground for a second; not enough to completely obscure his eyes, though; the woman could see that they had a kind of pensive, distant look to them; as if deep in thought, "I-I think the concepts of "pain" and "joy" are really just the same thing"

The woman smiled, taking down her parasol and folding it up; using it as a cane, anticipating the long discussion ahead, "what do you mean, Alexandre? This makes no sense to me; it sounds absurd, to my ears"

"I-I understand that. Perhaps it's different to you; perhaps your reality is, somehow, drastically different from mine. But, as I see it, "pain" and "joy" are different sides of the same coin."

"You can rub off one side of a coin, Alexandre"

Yvon looked up, and grabbed the woman's shoulders; he held her in place with some force but being careful not to cause discomfort; he looked into her eyes; and, with this, she could clearly see his eyes; they had taken on a look of adamancy; not an adamancy that would imply a state of being loud, raucous, drunken; not a stern, commanding adamancy; but a kind of uncompromising state-of-mind that came from belief in a concept; the belief in it's strength.

"You can't use it to buy anything with a coin with no side, though. You can't recognize it for what it was before; it has wholly changed"

"Isn't change good? Change rejuvenates you; it is how the phoenix is born from the ashes; through change"

"Yes, but-", he paused; this time he looked up to the sky, as if he was praying to God that mana would fall from the heavens, "-I don't think this is a good change."

He let go of her shoulders; turning around, walking back towards the tree a few steps; back towards the east. He stopped for a second and crossed his hands behind his back, and turned his eyes up to the sky; the deep, wine-red sky, thick with particles of blood-colored light. He stared up at the expanse for a few seconds; wholly silent, not saying a word. For those few seconds he was completely motionless; like a gargoyle; frozen staring up at the heavens. He did finally talk, but he didn't move; he held his position.

"I don't think "pain" and "joy" are distinct; it is only through the other that we can know one. How would we know "pain" if it weren't for the absence of "joy"? How would we recognize "joy" besides contrasting it with "pain"? They define each other; it is like heat and cold. Cold is not a distinct entity; it only exists because of "heat"; it is not an entity in of itself, but, rather, it is a lack of warmth. It's defined by something else, not itself; and, once again, we have the same problem; how would we recognize "cold" if we didn't know "heat"? Pain is defined by joy, and joy is defined by pain; just as cold is defined by heat"

"If that is true, I just created a world without happiness; a world where no one ever will know joy; not because they don't have it, but because they can't recognize it"

"But it's also a world without pain, mind you"

"If your ideology is, in fact, true. Which I don't think it is; I find no proof for it to be and", she paused, thinking of what to say, "my personal experiences and ideology of choice, I feel, make this seem rather unlikely to me."

Although he turned his head to look at the woman, he did so by looking over his shoulder; he still held his statue-like pose; hands behind his back, "I see. I understand that; I know you, Božilović; I know you'd stand by your ideals no matter the cost", he paused again; , his mouth was still left agape; as if he was interrupted by a thought in the middle of speech, "how much time do we have left?"

"Thirteen seconds"

He turned back to the east, looking back to the open red sky; which looked, the woman though, rather like a good glass of cabernet, "then, in thirteen seconds, we will know the answer to a question that humanity has long pondered through dark nights; in dusty study-rooms and in silent walks; is, "perfection", in fact possible? Could there be a perfect world? An ideal world? Or, in fact", he paused for a second; he appeared to be thinking once again, "is "imperfection" more perfect than true perfection ever could be?"

Description
The woman with the parasol walked across the moorland; over the grass, her blue skirt flitting over the idyllic meadow as a butterfly moves over a flower; the white edges just barely above the ground; not quite touching the earth. She was walking from the east; the setting sun in her eyes, the red rays blocking her view; she could see little but a vast wine-red expanse, with small trimmings of grass and anemones through the red fog of light; she just caught little glimpses of them here and there, through the fire-colored rays. For the most part, she only saw the sun; she winced, trying to peer through it's bands of light; however, she didn't dislike it; it was not like she needed to see; you only needed to see if you "weren't sure" -as she often like to put it- of your fate. You only needed eyes to assure yourself of an insecurity; something you weren't sure about the fate or nature of. And there were no insecurities -no uncertainties- in a perfect world; her perfect world.

She was really quite content to keep walking forward; to keep walking towards the west; "into the sunset", as she heard them say. She was entirely pleased with a fate to keep going forward -as a human should- and not looking back; just to engorge herself in the bliss; the happiness and joy, the eternal contentedness.

But then she heard a voice coming from a distance; a quiet but somehow striking voice coming from the east.

"Madame Božilović!"

She looked back; she had to. She couldn't bare herself not to look her opponent in the eye; and, so, she looked away from the sun's warm embrace.

It wasn't really entirely that much worse looking to the east; you didn't get the warmth on the solar rays on your face, but, without the obstruction of the sunlight, you were able to look at the meadow in it's completeness; stretching out far beyond, rolling green hills and pastures; little areas of white and baby-blue coloured flowers occurring in small patches.

Silhouetted against the red sky was a tree; she wasn't quite sure what sort of tree; it was small but sturdy, with emerald leaves and a thick husk of gnarled bark. It wasn't so much it's physical appearance that mattered to her, however; it was the emotional appearance; the experience and emotions that came up within her when she thought of it.

She could remember sitting under it; with the others; discussing the world. They discussed everything when they were toying with a decision; every little event within their lives had an effect; from a first time at the park with your parents, to your first kiss, to the last time you saw your loved one; the last time you saw them smile.

Eventually, when everybody was finished sitting under the tree -discussing the world as a concept in more detail than they ever would've imagined under normal circumstances; weighing concepts against each other; "good" against "bad"; thinking and talking about every little facet of the concept of "existence"- they sided with her; the woman with the parasol. They sided with her ideology; that the world wasn't as beautiful as it could be; it could be better without all the sorrow and hate and pain, all the unsavoury parts of life. While, normally, complaining about life itself is something reserved for children and melancholics, this was a particularly unique situation; a situation where the fate of the world was in their hands. They could cut out all the unsavoury parts if they wanted to; make a perfect world. That is why they were sitting under this tree; trying to decide if they would change the face of existence itself.

Back in her present, but a short time later, after having turned from the sun, the parasol woman turned to the only man who opposed her and her ideology; the man that was shouting to her from the east; the only man who felt that, perhaps, we shouldn't cut out the bad bits of life; a viewpoint she once thought foolish; and still found illogical, although perhaps not as much so as before, "Mister Yvon. How do you do?"

The Frenchman corrected his appearance before speaking; making sure to straighten up his tie and to pat down the wrinkles in his blazer, "Božilović, I know I lost; I know the people chose happiness over sorrow; joy over sadness. And that is only fair; I suppose it's to be expected. It's what a human should do; and I don't mean that in a cynical way; I don't mean to belittle you", he paused, running his long, strong, rather masculine fingers through his hair, "it's brilliant; you did what you should do; you completed the human agenda", he looked up at her; into her eyes, "but I must ask you, as I must know; do you regret it, even a little bit? Do you regret making a perfect world?"

"No", she answered matter-a-factly.

"I see", he looked to the ground; he did this for a few minutes, as if trying to come up with some kind of concept to discuss; contemplating on what would be best to say next, "what does your watch say?"

When the group -all but Yvon- had sided the parasol woman, they decided something; they'd give themselves to think about their sorrow; they were thinkers, after all; pensive people; or so they'd like to think. They wanted a few seconds with hate and sadness and pain before they vanquished their evils for good; just to view the feelings' nature for the last time before they were no more; before they were brought to extinction. And, so, they decided they'd set the parasol woman's fob watch for fourteen minutes; fourteen short minutes to live in this painful world, before it all changed; before evil was vanquished for good, and the "human agenda" -a name with she, personally, had always despised, even as she embraced it; she always preferred "life's agenda; as it was but the ambitions of any logical lifeform- was completed; the agenda to create an ideal world.

Pulling the fob watch out of her pocket by it's bronze chain, the parasol woman looked through it's glass covering at the dials underneath; reading what time they had left.

"Two minutes"

"Two minutes? Damn, Božilović, you hardly gave us any time to -masochistically- enjoy our suffering; is that a loss you can deal with?", Yvon said this in a rather humorous way; but, at the same time, he was attempting to make a serious point to the woman.

"It was 11, originally", she put her watch back in her pocket; taking care to put the main body -as well as the chain- fully into the cloth sheath.

"It has been eight minutes already?", Yvon looked away; away to the east; back to the tree that they, a little over eight minutes ago, had sat under.

"Yes", she walked up to Yvon; and reached out, putting her left hand on his shoulder, "I-I'm sorry, Yvon"

"Do you truly think we will all be happy?"

"Yes. It is a world with just happiness, after all; no sorrow, no sadness, no hatred or pain", she looked over his shoulder; at the same tree he gazed at through his grey eyes, "you'll love it, Alexandre"

"But how would you know love without loss?"

She was confused by this response; it made no logical sense to her, "what do you mean?"

"Do you believe that pain and joy are completely independent; that they exist as their own?"

"Yes; of course. That is but common logic"

Turning around, pushing her hand of his shoulder, Yvon turned to the woman; so that he was looking her in her eyes.

"I don't think so; it isn't to me", he looked to the ground for a second; not enough to completely obscure his eyes, though; the woman could see that they had a kind of pensive, distant look to them; as if deep in thought, "I-I think the concepts of "pain" and "joy" are really just the same thing"

The woman smiled, taking down her parasol and folding it up; using it as a cane, anticipating the long discussion ahead, "what do you mean, Alexandre? This makes no sense to me; it sounds absurd, to my ears"

"I-I understand that. Perhaps it's different to you; perhaps your reality is, somehow, drastically different from mine. But, as I see it, "pain" and "joy" are different sides of the same coin."

"You can rub off one side of a coin, Alexandre"

Yvon looked up, and grabbed the woman's shoulders; he held her in place with some force but being careful not to cause discomfort; he looked into her eyes; and, with this, she could clearly see his eyes; they had taken on a look of adamancy; not an adamancy that would imply a state of being loud, raucous, drunken; not a stern, commanding adamancy; but a kind of uncompromising state-of-mind that came from belief in a concept; the belief in it's strength.

"You can't use it to buy anything with a coin with no side, though. You can't recognize it for what it was before; it has wholly changed"

"Isn't change good? Change rejuvenates you; it is how the phoenix is born from the ashes; through change"

"Yes, but-", he paused; this time he looked up to the sky, as if he was praying to God that mana would fall from the heavens, "-I don't think this is a good change."

He let go of her shoulders; turning around, walking back towards the tree a few steps; back towards the east. He stopped for a second and crossed his hands behind his back, and turned his eyes up to the sky; the deep, wine-red sky, thick with particles of blood-colored light. He stared up at the expanse for a few seconds; wholly silent, not saying a word. For those few seconds he was completely motionless; like a gargoyle; frozen staring up at the heavens. He did finally talk, but he didn't move; he held his position.

"I don't think "pain" and "joy" are distinct; it is only through the other that we can know one. How would we know "pain" if it weren't for the absence of "joy"? How would we recognize "joy" besides contrasting it with "pain"? They define each other; it is like heat and cold. Cold is not a distinct entity; it only exists because of "heat"; it is not an entity in of itself, but, rather, it is a lack of warmth. It's defined by something else, not itself; and, once again, we have the same problem; how would we recognize "cold" if we didn't know "heat"? Pain is defined by joy, and joy is defined by pain; just as cold is defined by heat"

"If that is true, I just created a world without happiness; a world where no one ever will know joy; not because they don't have it, but because they can't recognize it"

"But it's also a world without pain, mind you"

"If your ideology is, in fact, true. Which I don't think it is; I find no proof for it to be and", she paused, thinking of what to say, "my personal experiences and ideology of choice, I feel, make this seem rather unlikely to me."

Although he turned his head to look at the woman, he did so by looking over his shoulder; he still held his statue-like pose; hands behind his back, "I see. I understand that; I know you, Božilović; I know you'd stand by your ideals no matter the cost", he paused again; , his mouth was still left agape; as if he was interrupted by a thought in the middle of speech, "how much time do we have left?"

"Thirteen seconds"

He turned back to the east, looking back to the open red sky; which looked, the woman though, rather like a good glass of cabernet, "then, in thirteen seconds, we will know the answer to a question that humanity has long pondered through dark nights; in dusty study-rooms and in silent walks; is, "perfection", in fact possible? Could there be a perfect world? An ideal world? Or, in fact", he paused for a second; he appeared to be thinking once again, "is "imperfection" more perfect than true perfection ever could be?"