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A DROP OF MIDNIGHT
"In dim light and air still thick with the heavy smell of fried beef liver and onions, a quiet man sits in his cozy second hand bean bag chair, at his third hand metal desk. Before him, a black, soft leather journal lies in wait. Between its supple bindings are eggshell white pages ruled with thin azure lines. An ordinary pen rest perpendicular to his sternum, three sacred inches from the unbound edge of his journal, placidly awaiting his defining grip. With reverent eyes this man stares down at the blank face of his hallow book, as if expecting it to part and deliver unto him all answers of mysteries ever conceived. . . . . ."