“This. Is a spoon,” declared a friend. He was holding the spoon straight up in front of his nose and then added, “and so what?” He threw the spoon on the table, discarded of it.
“The thing is,” he continued, “you do not feel what I feel when looking at that spoon. You don’t have the same memory of it. When I look at that spoon, I think of how my lover and I both ate from it. We were in the park. You may now well envision a picknick. When what I see is how we bought take-out Thai. The sun was setting though. It was summer.”
There is a point to this which rings true for every artist. I’m sure you can do the math. And what I did wrong with my previous two entries is decribe the spoon. My job should be to rewrite until you picture why the man’s death makes me feel so sad. For now, I’ll leave it at a spoon.