The perfect beach day--scorching, but spent inside, reaching for le bon mot. A bouquet of les bons mots. Cooped up, because no experience feels completely lived until committed to paper. And by committing it to paper, excising the juicy bits for extra study under the microscope. Even on days probably better spent catching rays, getting ducked. This urge--but oh, such a luxury, a huge unspeakable luxury--to indulge it. Watching the word count creep up, almost to cut off point.
And what has the world to gain by this--what difference will it make, getting this stuff down?
A question not many writers can or should entertain too intently, perhaps.
But, what are we if not our reflections?
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