Blank Slate

"What is it that you write?" Cynic eyed The Lad at his slate.

"Perhaps I am not writing. Perhaps I am drawing." The Lad's chalk cut an extravagant flourish through the morning mist.

With a patient sigh, "So. What is it that you draw?"

"I did not say I'm drawing. I said perhaps." The Lad studied the road curving out of sight.

A derisive snort. "You seem not to know. Perhaps you merely waste a morning."

The Lad now looked in astonishment at the Cynic. "First I contemplate. Then I create. You deem that wasteful?"

Cynic lounged in his seat. "But you know not what you create."

"You asked amiss. I know what I create." The Lad placed his chalk in the center of his slate.

"So what do you create?"

"Today." The Lad's chalk moved deliberately across the slate. "Today I create today."
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