A perfect, unspoiled dandelion, in full geodesic bloom.
The question I had to ask myself, as a writer: do I blow on it, thereby proving the truth that no perfect thing can last? Or do I allow it to remain, knowing that some fickleness of nature will soon destroy it, beginning again the cycle of nature's creation?
This is a metaphor for my own writing.
Notable NYC: 3/24–3/30
2 hours ago