The two men walk down the city sidewalk. Both are well-dressed in suits of the style of the day- clean, ergonomic lines with bright repetitive patterns of clashing colors, muted greens offset by neon yellows. The first man pauses, the thin line shadow of an electric wire bifurcating his face perfectly down the center. He keeps a well-trimmed beard. The power lines float overhead, unconnected to the ground by any poles, or at least none visible.
They are speaking of Descartes. "But of course, he had a backup plan built into his argument," the man continues, stepping forward again. He is in front of a stop sign now, which by this time has evolved into just the idea of a stop sign: a large red octagon, a symbol more than anything else, floating above the ground in much the same way that the power lines do here. "Even if he was wrong and he didn't exist, he wouldn't exist, so he couldn't be wrong."
And they continue walking.
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