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    Summary

    Is it the same for Kaveh then? Al-Haitham ponders in the silence. Could he love only in the way he loves his creations and the process of creating? These imperfect things that he moulds from clay, from metal, wood, and dirt; that he shapes and refines into perfection from his own worn hands and overwrought mind, nourished with his blood and sweat and tears, forever chasing after an ideal so unattainable, it always seems out of reach?

    Al-Haitham does not think himself an artist, so he does not know; perhaps will never truly know, this eternal struggle that seems to beset the artistic soul. Still, he feels a shiver running down his spine as he continues to watch Kaveh’s hands working the moist clay; as he begins to wonder what ‘form’ he would take if Kaveh’s fingers were to thoroughly shape him into ‘art’; into something born of Kaveh’s ideal, of Kaveh’s love.

    Evoked by a fleeting touch, Al-Haitham begins to dream.

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