The Odd

(always pictured a female reading this)
We are the odd. We are the losers and winners of tomorrow. We are those that can no longer skim and now must really read what we've not really been reading.

It's a plow scraping over the concrete. This is the sound they make. They are those that skim along the top; the writer's that merely write. They're trying to reach the depths*, separated by a turtle shell of concrete. Each day, scraping along, trying new spots, trying to knock the loose bit that'll pull everything in along with 'em.

*deep mossy green that coats the outer blue

The pot-hole feet of the few that manage this shudder at the awesome feeling of the water. The weightless playground hangs suspended. Clear blue. Light shines through, connecting everything instantly.
Unsure, they prod the water cautiously. Who will go first? Their eyeballs rattle across each other; not so much connivingly, but rather in the eager sense of wondering: will it be me who goes first?
The surface-kids do not know of perfect. But that is alright. Neither do we.

......