1. When I imagine my literary
history, I think of an endless
black abyss…

2. … the only substance inhabiting it is
my glowing purple line of literary
experiences.
It is not a straight line, but
a weaving and winding one.

3. I can not see the beginning, but I can
see the end…
and all the black
abyss that lay before
it. Infinitely empty.

4. I am in this moment, thinking of where
to go from here. Whether it will
travel up or down, left of right. How
are into the abyss can I go?

5. … In this abstract idea of my
literary experience’s life line, i can
see other writer’s liners crossing
into mine.

6. The author of the blog, The Column,
is the most recent to weave over into
mine

7. His is a different color, and
winds in and out at different
points.
Through this contact my
purple glow has changed
color slightly, influenced