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Scriptorium

A Writer’s Parable

Occasionally, in my most purple of moments I wonder if there is some imaginal realm out there for all the ill-formed and forgotten books that time has forgotten. A corner of the unreal where these dreams still have some existence, even if their plots are dangling out of their seams and they use far too many expressive’s.

I imagine some infinitely patient caretaker, still tending these half-formed things like the scraggy and ancient Lavender that I keep alive in my garden. It might be kinder to uproot it, but a part of me hopes that it might yet produce flowerstalks.

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