ABSTRACT
It was a perfect spring afternoon. I was stretched out on the cool, smooth floor. The window was ajar. Sun streamed in. I watched dust particles appear and then vanish, as they passed through a ray of light. Bits of conversation and the mist of humming motors flowed into the room, teasing and testing the clear-cut lines of the window frame. I looked at the large, white sheet of paper in front of me. I reached for a second, cream-colored page, tore it, and adjusted it to fit a corner of the first sheet. I pasted it on, stretched to one side, and started to write. After a while, I rolled over the sheet of paper to write from the other direction. I turned a pastel stick on its side to draw a vertical streak, blew the excess powder into the air.
