Perhaps a bowl of fruit on a table, or
maybe a flower arrangement captured for all eternity in a photograph or
painting. It is one tiny segment of
reality stuck in time. It cannot go
forward and will not decay. It is a memory
that is no longer possible to forget.
The title alone seals its fate.
But then, we take it a step further. We hang them in a building, shine lights on
them, rope off areas – don’t stand too close.
There is no such permanence for a well-crafted
paragraph. Writers are relegated, or
should I say, confined to books. There
are no displays, no special lighting or roped-off areas, only dusty shelves in
dimly lit libraries.
Book covers are designed by non-writers. Graphic designers are instructed to convey the
essence of the story, with maybe a splash of color to capture attention, possibly a severed rose laying across a well-chosen
font.
Still Life
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