A yellow, chimney, and otherwise an example of early braided narrative. What if you had to give your readers more to work with? Well, ascent and descent, and landscapes more or less unchanged from the prior decades.
Their prayers sank, like slices of stale bread, into the sea. Called forth from the hiss of what fire. They rode up the trail expecting at any minute to be turned back towards Albany.
Layer upon layer, or perhaps overlapping circles. The store selling cemetery stones is up for sale. And the old man who planted wildflowers all over the city appears to have died at last.
He wrote. And then the a small number of clouds floated by, each bearing some moisture derived from the Black River. Lists help, also drinking.
Yet in the shade he reflected even more deeply his many gestural tics. Felt a tapping he would later describe as feral, not at all holy. Which was a way of inhabiting a place while simultaneously being elsewhere, or so he said, after.
The word was what it was, but the question set it up another way. She waited for him at the top of the stairs, holding a coffee, her smile disappearing in the crowd teeming around them. Though crossing the street, it could have been any city at all.
He made it older by raising the narrative stakes. He felt his way forward, and later put it into words.