As if the wind could lift story. In the night, very late, a dark hoop around a waistline. She peered in. Not unpleasant. History licking up at her. Not with handles though. No instruction. They come at her, quite insistent, as if waiting for communion, their tongues out, awaiting it, the instruction. No, she admonishes, don't wait for instruction! One doesn't arrive at creation all in a moment, ready for greatness (whatever greatness is in the face of story). One journeys, and without google maps. One crawls out of basements, one slogs through shit, one puts in time at bad jobs, one gathers, one almost gives up, one doesn't take a number, one sniffs, one notices texture, ways of feeling hungry. I worry, someone said from the bowels of the story. How will anyone know where we are going if they are all waiting for instruction? How like a hoop, she thought, how like crinoline, and precisely that: how can one know the exact quality of earth, what might be good for, say, growing spinach rather than tomatoes? The story adrift, a small planet shooting toward the horizon.
See also: entre-genre