I dreamt a white owl flue down and landed on my arm as I was pointing at a journal. This book seemed of special interest to a stranger who inquired from where I'd purchased it. I recalled the shop on the corner of the street, a mysterious antiques establishment... The book now rested on my shelf, the pages filled with nothing... The owl, using some force of magic, tried to bend my arm toward my mouth, I had the feeling it wanted to speak through me.
I woke, and realised that (prə-fĕshˈə-nə-lĭzˌəm) is the enemy of creativity.
Seems obvious now !
Hoo Hoo !
