In some precise point of the dirty passages of a crowdy underground station in London… the same stain remains.

When you see it for the first time, it seems like water, juice, or a fizzy drink from some thoughtless and non-English person who threw it there.

But the very next day the spot will be in exactly the same place. Not a bit more to the right; not a bit more to the left, but there. Right there.

If this someone decides to go right there at 7 O´Clock in the evening, they will discover a man. The man who does not stop cleaning the stain. The same spot, everyday, at the same time.

With an old and gloomy glance, the head hanging down but the body straight, that man tries to remove the stain that still remains. He knows it is impossible to make it vanish; that it must be some kind of grease, and he knows for sure that it drips all the time in an invisible way though.

However, that is his job. Someone tells him to do it and he does it. He could never even think of complaining. Who knows; perhaps one day, if he spoke out against his task, they would fire him. Besides, why would he ever protest? He does not care when scrapping that spot. In fact, all day he is cleaning everything in one wipe without any attention, without returning to the same place. On the contrary, that point… That point is different. He knows that there is something there waiting for him; only for him. Something immovable, eternal. He does not care about anything else in his work. Only to try to remove the stain, without knowing that deep down he does not want to clean it.

He is unaware that there is a colleague of his that, everyday, and always just before 7 O´Clock, spills oil in that very point of the dirty corridors of a crowdy underground station of London.