The brick and the wall

When you get close enough, the brick is the wall, he's always thought this. But today he also decided that this must be true too if you're far enough away; the brick and the wall are the same since they are utterly indistinguishable within a distant point. Now, though, this leads us to a very sticky question; when do they split? Is there a level of zoom or a set of criteria where some grey suited drone in Brussels can tell you 'Yes, if we move from here to here we have a separation / conjunction'? When is the atom the molecule? When is the thread the cloth? When do these racing moments become life spent?

He so desperately wants this to be true for him and her; that at some perspective they're a thing combined yet still separate from others. How much distance would close the gap? If a sniper stood on the roof of a crowded plaza and swept the sight past them, could he confuse them for one? Faces melded together, arms up each others sleeves, twenty fingers in ten? He shuffles closer to her and hopes that when the bus turns the corner and approaches the stop, the passengers on the top will see, for a second, just one person standing here.

At some point the clouds, too fat or too tired or too full, began to rain. The neon street lighting reflects off the splashed drops and as the bus rumbles to a halt, he makes out a face, patterned into the pavement. Then it's gone. He reaches out his hand to take hers but she has moved back to avoid the spray from the wheels and he grasps at empty air.