Life is a series of images.
Like how my living room was completely dark and all the furniture indistinguishable, but the east corner glowed dully from the light of an old-fashioned lamp, and the capo on my guitar showed black and distinct on the edge of that light.
The woman with a wrinkled face and a smile that hadn't been used often enough. I could tell because it came with an awkward effort as I crossed paths with her on my run this morning. I wondered if the daschund dog trotting ahead of her on a leash was the only loyal relationship she knew. The smile stood out, not just because her magenta sweatshirt and gray pants were faded, but because it seemed real. Awkward, yes, but real.
The two leaves sitting on either side of a crack in the sidewalk. I don't know why I thought it was interesting that neither touched the cracked part of the cement, but I did.