The library of all things ancient and of all things on the verge of their creation was where I find now find myself, lost in all the possibilities and searching for some way home. Midst this realm of aging leather and graying pages my soul reaches out beyond my grasp. And when my soul does wander about these memories of thoughts once created, they stir to life the ghosts that live at the end of the words.
These ghosts are sentenced to an eternity of perfected the drying ink of authors who yearned for one more hour to rewrite it all, but their yearning was denied. My soul does stroll among these ghosts and the elves that work relentlessly to chase them back into their covers.
The elves that lurk among the rows and rows of literary walls, climbing moving stairs to return the ghostly thoughts to their upper berths. The elves, they work is reverent silence, a hushed existence to preserve the listening that is fading from this earth.
It is but the echoes of their tiny footsteps and the ticking of the distant clock, that reminds me that I too must think my thoughts before there more time to think them. Thus my black Monblanc scratches upon the paper my dreams, my memories, and the occasional dictation from the ghosts who beg me to write their words again in a desperate try for the elusive perfection.
This place is filled with empty space waiting to be transformed into wispy apparitions, a gossamer of words and phrases midst a universe of silence. The stories are like imagined butterflies tangled in that gossamer, struggling to emerge into full beauty from the chrysalis of my mind.
And the ghosts walk by, the elves work away, and my soul flows into memory at the tip of my pen upon the paper.