We sit, listening to "romanchick" music: a raspy sailor pining for luscious hips and thighs. Her car's an oasis—smell of cinnamon and spice, orthodox icons to guide us. I want her to hear: you're beautiful.
I am one of many, embarking on this experiment. The idea is to write a short piece of poetic prose about 365 people I have encountered in my life, one entry per day for a year, using approximately the number of words, matching my age. I've stopped, then resumed, but I am resolved to take this to the finish line.