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  • When, slowly, dawn lit the wick of the new day, the whole world took a pale salmon color. From charcoal to pink. The transformation was magical. He put his pen down. He had just finished writing the last words of his book. He had anticipated resolution and closure. Not so. Accomplishment? Definitely. He was a man of sentiments, not of ideas. Of fuzzy images rather than clear thoughts. That is why he had been so surprised when someone suggested he wrote. It had been difficult. Not a root canal but very close. Soon the words will be between covers. Where they will escape from or fall asleep more soundly. But that's an other chapter as they would say. But no more chapter for the time being. An other beginning? Too soon to tell. The new world that he might take on is only made up of undefined silhouettes, he almost wrote: outlines. The unanticipated side effect of this adventure had been the growth of a support system. People, who had been strangers to his life, giving warm embrace to his fumbling attempts at building sentences that would no longer be limping. Email messages, postcards and a box of biscotti from time to time, had laid a balm on a raw wound. He will miss them. A chance encounter might allow a first sighting on the busy thoroughfares of Los Angeles. But would they even recognize each other? An acquaintance who was sailing on the rugged coast of Maine had invited him. An other coast, an other angle. But there is something to be said of being in the blurry zone of between projects. He put the cap back on the bottle of purple ink. Nothing of have, nothing to be. The silence of a dried nib.
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