Describe the softness of the pink cushion. With a fountain pen. On the roughest handmade paper. If you succeed, you may allow yourself to be a writer.
That pink cushion, then. I didn’t succeed. I no longer remember how often, how long, or how intently I tried. Presumably, I gave up quite soon. And with that attempt, also the idea of being a writer. Life happened, and I became a photographer.
Still, the story of that pink cushion kept following me. Years later, I told a friend about it. She drew an instant conclusion: what you did was more of a performance than a serious writing exercise.
I knew she was right, and that one day I would have to do something with it.
Work in progress
