What would I write if I had no fear? What would I say to the infinitely curious?
It's as if a thirsty guest gaped at the painting on my well cover and gushed with interest. But removing the cover their eyes flowed down to the side where I lay it. Kneeling to look closer they implored me to speak of the time when the rich colors flowed with life. The sparkle from their upturned face contrasted with the other sparkle, which they could not see from their vantage. The restless inky gloom held no promise for them at all, not even an idea of quenching anything.
I fascinate people from time to time but it never seems to be for the hoped-for reasons. Is their attention wrong? Is my hope? Or am I lacking in some extent and realism of my arts?
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