Then the next phase began.
Inspiration hits with a flash, stories written on the go. A rumble of laughter and the tale is heard only in echoes. The wind blows me in a new direction. Whom shall I visit next?
I pushed open the doors, straining my back a little, and with a creak they parted. They were thick, old and heavily lacquered, and smelled of wood smoke. The sunlight from behind me inserted itself into the hall like a surgical tool, revealing the neglected organs within. Somewhere ahead of me, something caught the light. It seemed like a rather large gem, in that moment.
I had the feeling that something marvelous was about to begin, and I was scared that I would miss it, would be oblivious and my efforts would be in vain.
I was almost right, too, but I started to help myself feel aware from that moment.
This is the beginning of that story, that phase of my life, my changes, that time when I found what I wanted and how what I wanted began to feel different to me over time.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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