Found myself refracted.

The eye that stops the world is the one that winks open, winks closed, and captures a moment as memory forever.

The taste that can’t be described, the heart in the paint in the brushstroke on the canvas, the edge of the reef below which there is blackness, the texture in the plaster applied by a dead mason’s hand.

The hunger to know so much greater than the fear of the unknown, an irresistible force really, a big bang which was no theory but lived fact.

When the tide goes high, of course, it goes similarly low.

… includes a castle, of course.

At some point writers should have taken in enough sights and scenes they might permanently retire to their rooms; now is not that time, for me.