Within a dream I dreamt last night, the novel was finished, it was done, in full completion. It was a beautiful thing, the words were all right, the pages flowed like the sands of dunes, swiftly and with purpose. I wrote it all by hand, every word and every period, every sketch and photo.
Then, as I finished the final word, on the final page, of the final book. I sighed in relief and closed it, then placed it by its siblings, upon the shelf...
of Lucien's Library Of Never Wrote Books.
Will it be there forever, only in my head? Or will it, someday be taken from those endless shelfs of books no one ever wrote, and placed within the waking realm?
5-8-19 history
-
*Maybe about 5 years and a few reasons they would go home is a death in the
family or financial struggles or a new child perhaps.*
5 years ago
Posts
