Each morning I am crestfallen to discover that
my wardrobe harbours nothing more than
shirts, ties, jackets, shoes: never a wintry forest,
threatened kingdom or talking animal folk.
Later, over breakfast, there is a predictable
scarcity of owls, envelopes, and lists of magic items
required for the next year of my life; not even a
cruel uncle to yell at me, or lock me in a cupboard.
Every evening I am equally disenchanted
by the abject lack of dwarves arriving
unannounced at my door; furthermore, the absence
of wizards, rings, or any type of quest to be sent on.
Even by night I find myself thwarted by yet another
deep and dreamless sleep: an uninterrupted
vista of insensate slumber, lacking visions,
angels, prophecies or any kind of drama.
What sort of world is this, in which adventure
will not come looking for you, no matter how
hard you will it to; in which magic, if it even
exists, has to be created for oneself?


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