Have you heard of a place that’s full of stories
Breathing, growing, striving, shape-shifting?
A place of broken dreams and new beginnings
Of ideas and adventures and characters born?

People living, merging, dying
Becoming other, becoming real
Crying out to be made whole, but knowing
They may never make it out

But wait in a kind of purgatory
For a while or for an age
Waiting for their story to be told
And knowing it may never be.

It’s a mess, this place, hard work and a
Frustrating chaos of half-formed things
Confusion, cacophony
And plots that go nowhere

And unfinished pages
And unsatisfactory endings.
And lots and lots and lots
Of spelling mistakes.

Yet, out of this primordial swamp
Whole new stories will form and rise
Blinking in the light of day, and they will
Become something like magic.

And even among those left behind
The cry will rise, hopeful and brave:
“Surely it is better to have been thought of and forgotten
Than never to have been thought of at all?”