I think of something that seems worth writing about, but instead
of just writing about that, I seem compelled to begin by setting some scene,
which could be fine if in fact a scene were set, but instead I find myself
writing only a stupid report of having done this and then that.
I must commit myself to the gospel according to Hemingway:
Write one true sentence, about how it really was, and what they really said;
not what you wish it had been, or even how you remember it, but how it really
was. And if you can write down one true sentence, then write another one. And
if you can’t, then cross out what you have done and start over.
Maybe if I had a café to write in, and a cahier,
whatever that is.
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