Ah, the story of David J Cambridge is at the same time a long winded descent into endless tangents, and also a pitifully short lived thing; never was there time enough for his ambitions, but then again, did he not have all the time in the world, stretched across the thousand, thousand lives he would live? How could it be that he had not finished what he set out to do?

Perhaps work got in the way? So he quit. It was a dead end, just punishment after the faeries had abandoned him on his long trip to foreign shores in search of knowledge. Returning from New Mexico, there had still be so much to do. He had danced at the stones once again, but it would never be the same. Even tea and scones could not assuage the nostalghia.

But bravely living on, he adopted a guitar and became an adept yet still he has not found his time to shine as he hermitted away, living in a yurt near the wild wood of Mogador, family burgeoning by way of happy accident.

So he trod then upon the path of fatherhood, writing and playing and dabbling in the esoteric that he had so loved with the other foolish distractions of youth. In the cards he read how he might succeed through toil and effort. A story was born of a city and its doorways, of bored immortality and curious tyromancy.



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