Some stories simply cannot be written, only spoken. There is a short episode that I have told to a few people, and decided to write it down, seeing as I have always had the response of it being such a nice story. However, on attempting to write it the story became as damp as the patch on my living-room wall. All the pleasantness from the memory of the episode, and even of my re-telling of it, vanished. So, reader, you will never read the story, nor will I ever disclose what story it is.
But I am not unhappy about this, after all, some stories cannot be told at all.
(The secret, then, is not the story itself, but which story it is that could not be written.)
22.11.09
14.11.09
Pictures of Pompeii
The progression of civilisation puzzles me somewhat, as with it we no longer have such beautiful floors.
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