“What’s your point?”
The question hung in the air like a coyote that just discovered he had run out of cliff and was hanging suspended in mid-air.
The other person didn’t look up, just hunched over a pad or a notebook.
“No point. Just scribbling.”
“Why? You must have a reason.”
“No reason. I just feel like it.”
Arms flailed in frustration.
“Everyone has a purpose or a point or a reason.”
At this, the scribbler did look up.
“Do you really think so? Can’t I just feel like scribbling or drawing or painting or writing a poem?”
“But why?”
“If you figure it out, let me know. Actually, keep it to yourself. I’d rather just have fun.”
It was a lovely day, at that.