• I’m calling it a novel.
• About?
• Nothing. Anything. Tea. The smell of ginseng. Or something else. Will-o-the-wisps. The leaves turning and falling. The color of the lawn. The length of a day. The way the sun feels when you stare at it. Bright, but red. I don’t know.
• Do you stare at the sun often?
• No.
• But you write about it?
• Sometimes. Once. I did. You know the feeling.