a bird in my heart, its worth immeasurable

Looking over old Scrines, I am forced to recall how magical a place Scrine was and still is. And so it will be, while my heart still beats and my mind recalls.

I can donate my time, my earnings, and, of course, my words to Keith and the ol' Rusty bird. I can attempt to wax lyrical in an effort at gratitude. I can do many things, but I can never do it justice.

There are so many places online now that people call 'communities'. They have no idea. If you need to label it a community, online or not, then it probably isn't one.

There are and were other Scrines out there. They were second homes. They were repositories of imagination. They stirred a shared spirit, in whatever the venture. There, you were not the product, you were a part of the living whole.

This rusty little place, its walls made of words, has a reality beyond anything that ordinary 'reality' can understand.

Thank you, rusty bird. As ever. My heartfelt thanks.

The creature of your making: boot.

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