Lee spent months...no, take that back...he spent years in a battle, pitting his desire to acquire objects against his desire to create objects. He lived in fear, seeing himself in some future state where he was surrounded by useless collections -- old ticket stubs, office memos and sepia tone photographs of unknown people -- where he was a millionaire one step away from being a hermit. The really scary part is he is a hermit one step away from being a millionaire. For you see, Lee is a writer. He collects ideas, snatches of dialog, personality profiles, and anything else he can get his hands on that will contribute to the development of a story. When he gets desperate, and unfortunately that is more often than is healthy, he writes about himself. He then rides the inner spiral of self-examination into the abyss...
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I haven’t been to France, I haven’t seen Spain or driven through Germany yet I’m in the mood to tell you about my escapades in a European country. Let’s see, this story happened several centuries ago. I can’t recall the exact date, probably sometime in the fifteenth or sixteenth century.
Anyway, I was walking down what we now call a country road. No, wait...the walking person was not me, not the way you know me, at least.
Let’s start over.
François carried a basket weaved of goldenrod. In his basket, he carried a collection of papers called...
Tales From the Light Side
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