I mean it. I’m here. It is easier to navigate behind the counter. There are thousands of stories sitting on the tip of my tongue about the subway token that belonged to the Vox Populi of New York City, The single earring listening to its lost counterpart like a walkie-talkie. between the discarded crown of the pirate king and the planter root. Between and underneath the weather altering umbrellas, They lift the Sword of Sortilege by the hilt Incorrectly. But there is a counter in my way and stitches over my hip, and I have become the things I sell: An old legend, lying in wait to be needed.
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