Writing is like a beach swept flawless after high tide. I mark it with my footprints. These footprints mar or enhance the appearance of the pristine sand. After I have reached the end of my path, I must backtrack, and revise my journey. Without fail, I cant match my footprints. I am forced to make changes. Some are obvious, and some are caused as I stumble backward, or poke my foot on the shell that I missed the first time around. At the beginning of my path, I obsessively-compulsively start the journey again. I smooth unwanted footprints, or artistically add an extra print or 2. I may be compelled to bend and press in a hand. One thing is for sure, at the end, like a magnet drawn to its polar opposite, I will be drawn to the beginning again. Look, a starfish lays uncovered by my repeated disruptions. Eventually, I find myself at the end of the path, Im not sure how many times Ive travelled this sandy pilgrimage, but when I turn and look back, I see perfection. I relax and allow a cliché to enter my thinking. My work here is done.