On a whim…

By the time I am in the middle of the day the writing light is dimmed, the leaves of imagination have lost their color, and I am wearied of the notion. Why write at all, I ask? Because there is texture in the world even when there is no color.

The black and white (and tones of gray) to which the world seems reduced is not without interest. It is the observer who has lost interest. I am not ‘extinguished’ but my thirst to create prose has been quenched. I need to kick dust into the air. I must abandon the tiresome business of explaining and reclaim the role of challenger. I will advocate for the unresolved.

The world is awash in disarray, the clutter of leaves at the curb are the hastily abandoned trace of summer’s affair.