The novel? The short story? Unstructured thougths?

If I imagined myself at home,
where would I be?

If I imagined writing that would fulfill, or get at attempting to fulfill my observation, my running diagnosis, the motion of the world/exist as part of that motion,
what would come?

I am mortal, and acknowledge the short piece I do in time.

Lives come, people overlap relatives family partners of love and its enjoyment is poetry and writing is a vocation.