I've been looking for my desk. Having started 'writing' again, I've decided I need one. A place for just my things. With odd objects bearing mystical meanings known only to me resting in perfect spacing on its hard-topped surface. A place to sit and contemplate, to chew the end of my pencil, tilt my head sideways at the keyboard and wonder.
I intend to create magic as I write. To pull something out of nothing, put down words that no one has ever read before. To wind them in a tangled, lyrical fashion so that they sneak up on people and surprise! This is no small thing to be trying to accomplish. One needs all the help one can get. A Magic Writing Desk could surely be useful. It could lend its ancient, weighted wood to my ponderings. It could lend its solid steadiness to my wayfaring thoughts. Truly, the right surface, the right pen, these things make a difference. Just as the right pictures of ghosts and gods, goddesses and relatives, far vistas and reptilian creatures on my walls watch over me and grant me their support.
Alas, it has not come. I sent the winged message on a prayer. Knowing, in these things, it is best to let the spirits make the acquisition. And so we wait, my desk and I, until that moment, long decreed, has arrived. Then we'll sit in blessed emptiness and create these words together.