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The life of a writer – a perpetual state of artistic hunger, is where every quiet room whisper tales of inspiration and every raindrop tells a story. It's a life where lamp light is a beacon for musings, and melancholy is as much a muse as joy. Just south of Peekskill is Tarrytown, with its quaint charm and the Music Hall that stands as a testament to the town's rhythm like a forgotten melody that once rediscovered, plays on loop in the mind's jukebox. And that quote, oh that quote I inspected in a window shop typed on a vintage Royal typewriter was like finding an Easter egg in a video game, a hidden gem that brought a smirk to my face, because it was not just a line of poetry, it's a secret handshake between kindred spirits – the writer and the self. So, here's to the writers, the dreamers, the seekers of the inexplicable – may your typewriters or laptops never jam and your ideas flow as endlessly as the sound from the flowers. “the temple bell stops
but the sound keeps coming out of the flowers” - Matsuo Basho
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AuthorCHARLES PEARSON Archives
December 2025
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