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Drifting by...

"At this room, time enters a no-passing zone."

8 November
External Services:
  • windswept1@livejournal.com

Time was when I could walk and sing all day and hear no more than the echo of my own voice in the hollow hills
- Treebeard

Glorious prose and equally glorious art and clever, pithy remarks about life and other such things, are not likely to be found here. What you will find though will be often spectacular whinings about not writing and sometimes writings (not glorious) and very rarely drawings (the glory days are now a relic of a bygone past)

I spend much of my time dreaming of watching rain in the mountains with a book in one hand and a cup of hot tea in the other, and a prospect of a hike in the woods. You'll probably find that reflected here a lot.