Oh thou elusive short post, how I seek thee--so often in vain. Even now as I sit by an open window with the ocean crashing less than 30 yards below me I fight the impulse to drone on about its beauty in clumsy attempts to avoid cliche. Who will win in my quest for brevity--the soul of wit, or the Charles Dickens wanna-be that is my soul?
As I sit, typing, and tasting the salty mist wafting into my room, filling me with Wordsworthean rapture, I struggle against the second-rate Russian novel begging to be born...Ah, Moscow...No! I must fight the tuggings and the tantalizing call of the imp of the verbose.
But the waves are so spectacular, the call of the seagulls so haunting. Let me describe them--describe them in the same ways that they have been described for centuries--let me talk about the the sublime--let me use 20 words where five will do. I want to put Tolkien to shame with my my description!!!
See?! Here's the problem. Now that I have this at about the right length I have no way to end it. It seems that I am doomed to ramble on in an attempt to craft some kind of misguided arch, or to stop in a place so awkward that