Not many eat the grapes in Bob's symmetrical yard, tended by the hired man with the canister of poison. They rot and fall. Bob walks to the park, counts the dogs, then returns to check on wife Rose and his manicured shrubs.
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.