The mountains are soft, she argued. They stand tall, blanketed in a cozy layer of snow, furs of trees coating them. They are enveloped by clouds. Everything about them is soft, including their slow descent to the valley.
No, he persisted, mountains are sharp. They are sharp like the stinging point of the needle leaves of the pine trees. They are jagged as they jut out, scraping the heavens. Their edges are serrated, their cliffs severe, and their descent to the valley anything but gentle.
That's not true, she said. They are soft like the cotton ball clouds that surround them. The downy froth that smoothes everything.
Smooth? He asked. Have you ever seen a mountain? Are the rocks that project out of the surface smooth? Are the menacing concave crevices of the glacier smooth?
Yes, she said, they are smooth.
No, he said. Everything cuts sharply out of the mountain.
Like what? She asked.
Like the trees. He replied.
Well, that doesn't mean anything, she retorted. The hairs on your face jut out of your skin just as the trees jut out of the face of mountains but that doesn't make your cheek any less smooth.
Eh, he considered, rubbing his face. I guess you make a point there.
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