There's a fear I have, returning to this space: that I will find it empty and swept clean, that every word I sweat through my keyboard would be gone, absorbed into the internet ether. That no record would be left of the years I devoted to this small place.
There's another fear I have, born out of the same stuff: that I will find this space churning with activity in my long absence, that the words left here had spawned some new life of their own, that some part of me kept alive by the echo would have grown legs and fingers to type new messages.
Instead, when I come back here I find it very much the way I left it: and it's strange. Life rolls on in that real, concrete way: and now the words are stilted and difficult to find.
But here it is, again and again: this need to come back. The need to do my own reinvention of Whimsy inside the walls of The Creamery.
There is a lot to tell you.
There is a lot to show you.
And I feel like I'm ready to talk.
So for now, we'll have to hunker down here on the floor. I just swept it, it's clean. There isn't a lot of furniture anymore, but I think we'll get to that, in time.