I have a writer's disease: everything is a metaphor; everything is more-and less-than it seems. I cannot look at a thing without framing it in a portrait of words. Sometimes, I wonder if I'd be able to experience life without language.* So, I stare at the empty shells that litter the lake shore in thousands, and think of abandoned homes, and mortality, and life, and beginnings. Shake my head, and look again. That is the sky, those are trees, that wheeee-ing in the background is a school bus taking a curve with an insouciance that is astonishing, this is the water, that tickles my toes, and if I'm not careful, one of those shell things is actually alive and will ooze over my feet, leaving a trail of slime. Ugh.
*(Yes, K, I know we've had this discussion before, shut up already. :p)
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