I read today that Hemingway said writing is not difficult; you just have to sit down at the typewriter and bleed.
Like the Third Patriarch of Zen said of the « perfect » way: It, too, is not difficult; it just dislikes picking and choosing.
Looking around all day and into night, imperfection abounds, limitless: Sunlight fades, the Métro stalls, I forget what I wanted to say.
And right there in the heart of every imperfect moment, perfect reality bleeds.