With broad strokes, he fit line after line to the pages of his small notebook, counting the rhythms under his breath. He didn’t think about it too much. If there was a tree set just so against the sky, or a moon grinning sideways over a mountain, or a bright flower purposively placed, he would tell its story. He didn’t bother to show anyone. He knew what it was like to read other’s writing, when pressed upon you in that moment. You read it lightly, you skimmed it, you tried to forget about it quickly. You were bothered they ever tried at all. Anyone can write a story. Everyone tries.
There was a place in town with a great roaring fire. He found a chair there he liked, and he put his feet out, and turned the pages of his notebook. It was thick with moisture. The pages crinkled. He read a poem at random. There were no dates.
Everyone comes to an end, it began.
He didn’t think it was very good. He sipped a very hot drink of something. He didn’t remember what.
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