i write like i live

I write like I live, of course, without action or plot: pretty and vapid and weak. I write

the beautiful things into life, the flowers and waters and trees, but they are static, in

paralysis. My life is a setting, still, populated with vivid colors and delicate shapes.

The seasons revolve and I chronicle the bright white winters and the aggressively

blue summer skies, the reluctant thaw of the spring and the astonishing gold of October,

but it is only a setting, like pictures on the wall. There are no characters to bring this

world to life, no arcs of climax and dénouement: it is a silent sketch, a meticulous

landscape, waiting for a catalyst.