My companion deemed fit to offer me advice on only one occasion. It was a Sunday, and the air was thick with the lazy promise of summer. I was buried in the workings of a manuscript when the dust was again disturbed by his voice.
"Life is poetry," he said. "Life is beautiful."
I sat up, listening intently.
"You should pursue it," he suggested.
"Life?"
"Sunlight."
It was either wistfulness or cynicism. I strode to the window and threw open the curtains.
An absolute flood of sunlight.