That is not Dead…

In a silvertone photo, the abysmally dark shadow of a tree (possibly) curves away from the camera toward an urban park utterly devoid of man and beast.

Stretching its manifold limbs into the suddenly chill air, it paused a moment to revel in the unlimited potential its new freedom brought. No direction was forbidden, no restraint remained. The new age was about to begin.

Can this be the end of the scourge of writer’s block?

Man, I sure hope so.

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Dirck

Fountain pen fancier and repairer, intermittent intellectual, underfunded anarcho-dandyist, and self-admitted writer of fiction, who's given to frequently wishing everything he wrote of a nonfictional sort was being read aloud by Stephen Fry, and everything else by either Vincent Price or Christopher Lee.

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