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.