What was your real work? You asked the question so often that the question itself became a form of work. You found yourself tunnelling through a mountain of words. Then out of the tunnel you came smuggling your dubious hoard, over the barriers and across the fields, and looked around, halfway between your destination and everything you left unfinished.
Some beautiful prose here: poetical, if that’s not a slur, it’s meant to be a compliment.
I’m in awe of your writing… beautiful stuff.
SUPERB.
I rarely comment on other people’s “About me” pages, but this time I think it’s worth it, or, at least, worth saying something about it…