To write is to let things pass slower than they happened, to toss negative space from memory and arrange leftover fragments. Summer sand; yellow pails; cold moats. Numbing bass; glasses kicked from the table; soft graze of cherry chapstick. High balcony; her grip uncurls; the smell of my own fingernails.
It seems to me that writing imitates life in that we are at first all things and through the art of forgetting, not remembering, do we chisel the pyramids of ourselves.