little wings

There are a lot of unrecognized brilliant authors out there. A lot of them. The last time I cried when I finished reading a book, an online anonymous writer wrote that work. The first time it was She by Rider Haggard. That book made me dream for a year, and I was perhaps ten or eleven then. All around me, everyday, people are impressed, awed, aroused, electrified by books, movies, music, by people and the smatterings of brilliance around us, by a vague vision of perfectness. A very few people yearn to talk about it. Happily, I’m one of them. And I’d like to meet and talk to more.

The last work that made me cry? Email me.

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