Time. Never ever came back. Mistakes, never ever, did undid.

The man looked around him, chips of marbles heaped at the corner of his studio. He never cleared it. Often thought of cleaning it up though. But they were more closer to him than the sculptures he had made. Those were the mistakes he never wanted to do. Those were the things he was very excited about. Very passionate about. But just for a moment, very very brief moment, which he couldn't undo, which he couldn't fix, missed being conscious. All it took was, just a little more power, a blow in one-degree-wrong of angle that cracked up the piece. All it needed was just right, nothing less, nothing more.

The piece of marble needed him to know him. To understand him. To see through it. To see his cracks. To see his weak parts. To see his hardest parts. To be breath like him. To feel like him. To be him.

It wasn't going to matter what he was going to keep but what he was going to chip off. What he wasn't going to keep was going to decide what it was going to be. And that was going to be the key.

He had thought of throwing the debris away. But he had kept it. Even at the cost of the space he could have used to keep something important. More space to move around. But it was a reminder for him. Reminder of the mistakes. Reminder of the failure to chip off the needed-ly right things.

Before he wanted to start on the new block, he took some time and went through the debris in the corner or rather the debris went through that imperfect, impatient and the uncomposed corner of him once again.