I live in a secret annex far from earthly cares.

My suite of rooms is concealed behind a hidden bookcase.

The world’s clichés lie elsewhere; they do not threaten me.

I project my infinite imagination onto a padlocked, bounded dimension.

Silence.  Silence. Silence.  Silence.  Silence all.  I must be silent.

Even muffled footsteps would threaten to betray my undisclosed presence.

I record the daily to-ings and fro-ings for future reference.

Notepads and manuscript pages are strewn on the clapboard floor.

Humdrum procaism will force its entry some day, I fear.

I will die in another room, my notions snuffed out.

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