Like filling up a glass with milk, like a round red ball, like a steak, the style asserted itself casually and confidently.
At first it was shrugged off, like a nerd at a party. No one wanted anything to do with the style.
The style walked home at evening, noticing the shadows of trees, and pitied itself, and hated itself for doing so.
A Change in the Weather
At this point in history, a man with a hole in his heart found the style filled it, or changed it.
He wrote a well-received article about the style; it was published to great acclaim.
Literary critics descended with microscopes and magnifying glasses, and proceeded, through minute speculation, to find the style acceptably sublime.
Mid-Life and Old Age
At times the style seemed to be in pain; then it would murmur plangently of the wind and the soughing of leaves; at times it seemed to almost disappear, like disappearing ink, into the folds of the pages in which it took shape.
Jimmy McAlester, a close friend of mine, whom I no longer talk to, (I blame time) swears he once saw the style jump off of the page like an excited dog, and run along the floor like a battalion of ants.
Of course, he meant this literally.
For over time, even the style’s metaphors grew literal, like rocks turning into sand, or babies into old folks, or flowers into metaphors.
The style subsequently multiplied, like a fungus, through the pages of other books.
At this point it was humongous and tiny, like a tower viewed from a distance.
People threw rocks at it, and were sick of hearing it.
Nowadays the style periodically asserts itself out of the fear, of course, of being forgotten.
Will it be forgotten? Only the next style will tell, of course. Jimmy swore it wouldn’t.
But Jimmy’s dead. And I’m skeptical.