Impression

I keep on waking up late these days. I wonder if something is wrong with me?

The sunlight is so lucid today, I feel as if I can almost pluck the rays out of the air and drink them. Light is a peculiar and amusing medium. I especially like it when they leave their footprints in otherwise untraceable terrains of liquid and air. The light is filtering through the last bottle of whiskey I have in front of me, and the golden hew is spreading throughout the whitewashed walls and wooden floors. I feel as if the room is being filled with most sweet aroma...

Will it be possible to capture the still life of the essences of the world through writing? Will it be possible to have an endless gallery of pictures, not of pictures but of words and phrases? An art is in part a study of the relationship between the medium and the space. Perhaps that is why we are not seeing a whole galleries of still-life and abstract writings.

How would I be able to 'write' something as potent and profound as Mark Rothko's art in writing? How would I be able to capture that rich duplicitous simplicity? How can I go beyond merely writing about things of the world to writing the world itself?