There's a lot of stuff growing in The Land, but you've got to be a writer to see it all. We push a selection out to a superfeed for public viewership. The rest — along with replies and revisions — is workshop material.
Baudelaire leaped high up to the window sill and brushed his nose along the prism hanging in the sunlight, suddenly jerking his head after the reflections dancing around the room. Memory is a kind . . . it goes on – however, this piece is for writers.