Some days there is nothing to say. I sat looking at the objects that had collected on the kitchen counter — sea shells, an electric fan we never put away after the summer, a wooden bowl containing odd keys and coins and pens, a butternut squash, another wooden bowl with garlic cloves, three sweet potatoes that are sprouting, a big jar of honey, Carol’s wallet, a scrap of paper, two small pumpkins that I am letting dry like gourds — thinking about nothing. Except I thought about how the late afternoon sun came through two windows, reflected off a white wall, and lit the butternut squash such that the shadows were light purple; and I thought about a book of photographs I had once seen showing every building on the Sunset Strip; and I thought about a book of photographs showing every object on the kitchen counter. The light faded, I had no camera, the idea died. It got dark, I turned on the lights. I still had nothing to say.