I am a man. Now, take for example … say color. Since our dna only has three different opsis genes – green, red and blue – of which green and red are on the X chromosome, our comprehension of color is restricted to the wavelengths of these colors of light. You’re with me? But nature provides for the perception of a much wider range of colors, naturally, you knew this, and would it not be but a fairly simple procedure to code our genome to include a gene for … i don’t know, say infrared perhaps? And what would be so immoral about it? What would be immoral about decoding our own genome? Coding the genome of our child like a puzzle. Nature mutates our genetic code constantly and consistantly, and what’s worse, by mistake! How moral is that? And seen in that light, it would be immoral, no! inhumane! not true to the nature of kindness to intervene. Once you know, it is hard to forget. Only if you never knew, never had the faintest idea, can you talk about the immorality of genetic manipulation. Going against the laws of nature? NOT to mutate our own genes, would be against the laws of nature, don’t you see? We have an obligation to progress! And would it not be moral to better our selves when there is the opportunity? Don’t you owe it to your children?

A sits at a long library table in cafe The Years on the Amstel river at the Kloveniersburgwal, light brightens the cafe’s back through the large windows, while A makes notes. He is trying to remember impressions from his youth, but has trouble determining the truthfulnesss of his memories. The sun’s strong beams blinds A as he squeezes his eye lids together to read his notes over, but barely able to distinguish the words on the white paper. The refraction of the light to green and red, brings back visions of his childhood on the countryside.

As his pupils slowly adjust, A notices a girl B’s silhouette stepping into the blinding nimbus of light. When he opens his eyes again, she too being half imagination half real, walking out of his past into his present, he stares at her sitting down next to him at the table.

B: Sorry, you mind? she points at the newspaper that lays folded on the table.
A: Oh of course not, go ahead.

A leans over to his notebook again and writes a memory of his mother down. He hears B’s voice whisper tender thoughts to his mother. The waitress brings a coffee for B.

B: thanks.

A, somewhat disquiet, leaves the cafe and saunters past the canals, the passers-by. He ponders about the people with whom he has nothing in common, on the surface water he sees the broken reflection of his shadow.