In finality, beyond the trace lingering flavors, exists something completely new and independent of anything that has been created before. This is the magic, the wonder, of the story teller, the creator of fiction, that unique individual in whose lies our mundane and often uninteresting lives become washed away by a marvelous soup made up of characters, events, happenstances, a recipe that was only previously served in one especial place, within the restaurant of one individuals furtive imagination.
We all on occasion have little glimpses of this process upon our own individualistic theater screen, perhaps in a dream, in sleep or torpid wakefulness, visions of what might be, should be, could be, in a universe somewhat improved or worse than the one that truthfully exists all around, anchoring our feet of clay.
Such little fights of fancy inspire us to marvel, read, watch, listen, incredulous at the improbable web the wordsmith weaves, spiderlike, for our education, edification and amazement.
Daily Abstract Thoughts 