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?
Sometimes I imagine being wrapped up tightly and completely by denim or canvas, enveloping me entirely. Bye, baby bunting. And then I would be stored away for a rainy day.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
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