Shadows moving along the edge of the forest,
Someone knocking from inside the closet,
These are just a few things that seep out of my pen.
Like worms, I cannot tell which direction they are going.
Because my imagination does not employ border guards, things,
ideas and events often cross over into other senses, such as smell, although I
can’t always tell when my writing stinks.
There are those of you who do not hesitate to let me know, and I would
expect nothing less.
For me, becoming trapped in a library would be wonderful. I would have time to explore all of the
various thoughts that have dripped from other pens.
I would, of course, be selective in my choice of reading
material. Nothing of war, no crime
novels or who-done-its. I would seek out
only those adventures captured in the light of day. I would search for clever, and hope for
entertaining.
I might even establish my own shelf. The Zobostic Corwin collection of fun,
light-hearted stories, suitable for all ages.
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