Tell me Writer, how hard do you love a good list?
Up the hill I went, Seeing every blade of grass and every pebble very clearly. Then I was in among the trees where the air seemed made of shadows and the spaces were all twisty. The trees were all somehow crippled-looking, wrong in their shapes. The ground was littered with dead leaves and fallen branches and all kinds of rubbish: rusty tin cans, a rotting car seat, used condoms, crumpled empty cigarette packets, a broken suitcase full of pulpy letters with rain-blurred hand-writing, a lady’s shoe, and soggy newspapers from years ago (Hoban 1996:52).
Hoban, R. 1996. The Trokeville Way. New York: Knopf
Reasons to Keep Writing 