It occurs to me that, coming full circle, this is the point I have been
struggling to make.
Under the white clouds, snow is falling.
You can't see the white clouds, or the snow.
Or the cold, or the white glow of the earth.
A solitary man glides downhill on his skis.
The snow is falling.
It falls until the man disappears back into the
landscape.
My friend Serge, who's one of my oldest friends,
has bought a painting.
It's a canvas about five feet by four.
It represents a man who moves across a space
then disappears.
