Some people are willing to wreck a perfectly good piece of white. Take snow, for instance. Why can’t we leave the perfect, even-keel fluff alone? Before you know it, our boots compress, tires impinge. The absence of color goes away, replaced by the colors of humanhood. For some time now — some might call it a month, some two — I’ve stared at another form of white space — a blank screen. The white stuff is so pretty that I prefer to look at a blank page rather than destroy it with bad writing. No matter how many times I…

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