Immersed in Dickens and Hawthorne, I cannot easily shake off the dusty antiquity of a bygone era. However, its scant reality inhabits, not the present, but my sad hearkening back to the shadows of long ago.
Hot blood pulses anew within fingers I thought stilled forever in a writer's graveyard of unwritten verse. It is a reluctant awakening to a life much sadder than that endured by storybook friends who cannot see me, know me.
Permit me, therefore, to reenter that precious twilight betwixt my present and the past, the faraway there of dearly departed poets. If I search within the darkened channels of elusive time, may I find old friends who have been rendered immortal in ink?