Under the blinding sun I
dream of quiet crisp-
ness, Japanese pines.
A forest muted by snow.
Shy deer and ripe cones.
The vastness singing.
Writer Between Worlds
Soulful writing about humans and places
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My inner mystic is plagued by insomnia and runs entirely on divine grace. The outer shell, however, does occasionally need: jasmine tea, ice cream (preferably salted caramel), good books, music, and new horizons. If you’d like to help keep this blog alive, please choose an amount:
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Writer Between Worlds 