A handful of resonant situations impressed onto the soul in your formative years and in the most banal situations, unprompted questionings when you were alone and the light slanted just so, are all that your imagination has to work with. It sections them and rearranges them, loses them and rediscovers them, but never adds to the stock. You are always cooking with the same ingredients and nothing however carefully sought out ever is permanently added. But you still imagine something new will come of it, as if that were the meaning of the original gift, as if that were not exactly to fail to appreciate it.