I write the perishables: the wink rather than the analytic, unwinking stare. I write the juice of peaches, never the gauntly shriveled fruit in plastic bags, imperishably withered, impartial to all seasons. I write the cold, wet nose prying under my palm, not a dictionary of dogs. I write the snowflake not the glacier, the dewdrop not the subterranean water table, the crest of wave not the ocean. I write the pulse of impulse never its premeditation. I see to it that the unenduring endures. I preserve the perishables.