I hope the art collector from the east invites an author on his vacation around the moon.
In much the same way I’ve wondered if marriages ought to invite scribes, familiar journalists who ply the guests and table linens for story, hewing ten thousand words to outlast the thaw of sheet cake frostbite. An extended ceremony from which commitment is more than a metaphor.
I’d have to put the camera down, first, if I wanted to try that.
