The ink languished into a register on the folded sheet, an inversion edited by gravity and diffusion.
I’ve been working on this essay/narrative/piece for (oh, boy) half a year, off and on, and I still don’t know quite what to call it, and that’s after approaching the whole experience with ten thousand words. I’m trying for something with it, striving, and still feeling uncertain if I’ve written one word that really expresses what had originally struck me as a secret lesson about the mystery of experience.
Maybe everything that you make along the way, or that gets made accidentally, even if you never get to where you think a thing might be able to go, can be your things. The art that you find along the way.