I hate the moments when you know that an idea, or an event, a moment, needs to be caught and held for the world, yet to the act is entrenched in apathy. The impatient travel writer sits at his or her computer, or at a bench underneath trees with a journal in one hand and a pen in the other, and lacks the power to think cohesively. The ideas, the memories, chase each other and mix in a soup of tumbled acts behind the eyes. The brain tries to catch them, like so many rabbits, and put them in a cage of order with black penned onto white labels. Writing is much like hunting. We sit, pen nestled in our lap, waiting in the silence for the game to appear, a wild thought to be killed
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