...a love story...

The mountain stands in the centre of the world, lonely but not alone. Do you see the distinction? Its surface is smooth and without the crags and crevices that other peaks hold. So smooth all truths can be read so plainly that it hurts sometimes, when it comes without warning. Streams wind down its face and pool in a lush valley at its feet. A mountain evokes stolidness, permanence. That which remains immobile and omnipresent, more comfort than inducer of excitement. A necessary component of passion, if only because it receives it. In receiving it, it lives it, experiences it, then perpetuates it, and must survive it.

It is surrounded by all the elements of a passionate world: the New England snows that land softly, seemingly innocuous until you realize they've frozen everything they've touched; the heady scent of olive oil in the wind, breezing over from somewhere in southwestern Ontario, a Mediterranean by proxy; and, because what would a passionate world be without it, the prodigal son - who drank from the stream, waters rich like purest wine, then traveled to greener pastures. Having answered the calls of all the world, it alters, sometimes imperceptibly, with each encounter. But whether damaged or merely changed, older or just a little more wise, it is still there, once all others have left.

The reason I can't follow anything through to it's conclusion goes back to not being able to follow a thought through to it's end. I can't combine all the elements: random and perfect thought to introductory sentence to well-developed story, to The End, I can't tie it all together. So, logically (and I can state this unequivocally because, after all, I am these days a Philosophy student) it follows that for me to have anything complete in my life, I have to write a novel.

What bullshit is this?