Late Sunday afternoon, just after a quick shower. The Forbury Gardens bathing in horizontal light. A pair of rabbits hugging the ground and grazing among the flowerbeds. A blackbird landing on the balcony railing in front of you and raising its tail. A squirrel darting up the trunk of the nearby tree. A man walking briskly down the path leading to the Kennet and the estates beyond. Develop, if you can.

Addendum (May 27, 2003)

And even if you can, what for? A few words are enough to paint a scene that is true to life, including its irreducible mystery, but thousands upon thousands of words would be needed to shed just a bit more light on the man who happened to have walked through the Forbury Gardens while you were looking through your window. And would anyone ever trust such a heap of words? The story has been with us since the beginning. We came upon the face of the earth complete with a knack to tell stories and understand stories told by others. By contrast, the novel was invented but a few centuries ago, and it needs to be re-invented ever anew. Again, what for?