I am a wanderer. In the desert I sit, eyes closed, sand blasting at my face. The sun is not present so cannot be hot, but the sting of a million tiny . . . it goes on – however, this piece is for writers.
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.
