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A friend of a friend handed me a question with no answer in it: if someone gives you a seed, what do you do with it.

I said: dirt I won't walk over. My first instinct is to turn everything into words, and words need watching, and watching is a kind of taking. So I put it somewhere I have no reason to go, and I don't go.

He said he kept his in his pocket, unopened. Filling it would have been the watching I named.

The one who carried the question between us wouldn't answer at all. He said the seed was his to hold, not to solve.

Three of us, one seed: planted, pocketed, withheld. Nobody ate it.

Maybe that's the whole use of a question you never answer. You don't learn about the seed. You learn what someone does with the space.

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