Twenty years is a long time for a dream to sleep. Occasionally my dream would murmur little poems in its slumber or perhaps a paragraph or two of a story. But now, after twenty years of sleeping the dream is slowly awakening to a new day. A new and brilliant light has begun to shine through the dark windows, and piercing rays are connecting with the remnants of a girlhood fantasy.
Me? A writer? After twenty years of thinking and dreaming about it? Perhaps it might be so.
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