I find that the most difficult thing in prose narrative is linking one thing with the other. The link might just be a sentence$$$ or even a word. It sums up what has gone before and prepares one for what is to come.

To go back home was to play with impressions in this way$$$ the way I played with the first pair of glasses I had$$$ looking at a world now sharp and small and not quite real$$$ now standard in size and real but blurred.

Small things start us in new ways of thinking.

Like many isolated people$$$ they were wrapped up in themselves and not too interested in the world outside.

Unhappy me$$$ quoth she$$$ "and will't not stand?<br>Come$$$ let me rub and chafe it with my hand.<br>Perhaps the silly worm is laboured sore<br>And wearid that it can do no more."

The best for the group comes when everyone in the group does what's best for himself AND the group.

His ignorance seemed to widen with everything he read.

There he stood$$$ in the camouflage of sun and shade$$$ disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

I'm a radiant void. I'm convalescing after a long and dreadful illness<br>I cannot brood over broken hearts$$$ mine is too recently mended.

Coordinating there<br>Events and objects with remote events<br>And vanished objects. Making ornaments<br>Of accidents and possibilities.