I find what I thought when I look at what I have written. I know why I write: I have an indomitable urge, as if a voice dictated to me and then the text engenders itself. I should like to know the center… the voice. It may be God’s.
“The plain was dry and cold and covered in an icy sheet for there had been no sun in that place, no font of warmth, until one chimeric morning the sun first dawn above the distant hill and spanned the horizon line with its pallid and steaming glare illuminating the new cerulean firmament and below it the shades of the Earth came to life as if a brush were dragged over paper, a watercolor iconography captured across mossy stone.”
Aidan Scott | The Garden