in denver, the light was low (hotel rooms are always lit in the same way).
i turned to you and said, “i am always writing the same thing, over and over again, in different forms. but still the same reincarnation”
you said, “really?”
and i said, “yes, i think all writers and artists (in all shapes and forms) are always re-making the same thing.”
i turned to carrie and asked confirmation. she nodded, with that famous look of infinite wisdom and innocence, if such a paradox could exist. and what are we living then, if not a circle? and what do we breath in, if not a rhythm? and what do we love within, if not a cycle?
“As soon as you stop, it’s because you’ve started again.
You can put a picture aside and say you won’t touch it again, but you can never write the end.” – Picasso