I am not sure how the story goes, what he or she does, how he poses or how she clothes. Only a vague idea grows and grows. Things good or bad or hectic, with an unexpected Asian twist. Relationships possible, and even electric, but never far from the gist. Imaginations so aimless, considerations endless, plot line pointless, the bold attempts shameless. For an O. Henry ending I contrive, a story like Maugham's I strive, a Waugh's style may come alive. Failing all, I might just be myself.