Courtyard in Paris,

chewing on a straw and Hemingway's theory of omission. Write a story but leave out something. Withhold from the reader a minor fact, a divorce or a death, only tone will tell them. Like the one about the man coming back from war where he doesn't mention war once. Reading about feeling not plotting history. Overcast and odd green leaves drift down. Some in the shape of propellors twirl to the ground like excessive ballerinas. Mellow Dylan ignores the dancers and sings the tune of the traveller. I should be writing a paper, but I keep wondering what it'd look like if Courbet painted the scene or Hemingway.