I am a writer. And a poor one at that. My perfect expression would be a painting. I would be an old man, and I’d be near the ocean then. It may be winter, but you couldn ’t tell. Not the way the sun is shining. You’d see me there. Mostly you’d see what I’ ve created. With luck it would draw you in, the centerpiece of a white, sunny, room, with hardwood floors and tiny grains of sand the wind had blown in for the occasion. The occasion being every day, the circumstance being happenstance. My life’s work is just before those French doors I always wanted, open to the world- so unlike myself- taking in the sun. I’ ve painted everything in front of me, everything my eyes can see. That ocean, the great white beach which stretches out to the great depths many fathoms below here, stretches out on my canvas. You wonder what took so long to bring me here, or why I waited if I always knew. I am not sad that it has taken this time, this distance to cross. Serenity is no mean feat, and as much as...