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Re-reading an old book
I run my fingers across the spines of homes I once knew
Molten emotions fuel the fire in each hearth
The smoke curling from the chimneys, an incense of which only I know the flavor
My eyes settle on a scarlet, leather bound structure
Through the door is room stuck in the web of time
Here I flew
Here I breathed deeply while sinking in thick water
I look up the ivy to see a raven perched on a brick jutting out from the ruined home
He invites me inside
His story I know
And he mine
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While I was re- reading a book after a long time, I was struck by how easy it was to re-enter the world I made for this novel years ago. Opening the cover was like opening the door of my childhood home. Unvisited, but never forgotten. The rooms of the world I built were exactly as I had left it, waiting for me to come back. The details of the furnishing and even the way the dust floated in the rays of sunlight spilling onto the ornate floors of the book had not changed; and it never would.