I feel like the last one left...

A piece of writing comes to life, when I can feel it, when it talks to me and starts raising questions. It may dispel biased perceptions; make me recognize ignored fragments and remember forsaken episodes of my life story. And it may sometimes even be nasty and disturbing, especially when I don't want to consent to its philosophy or concept, but it might, in the end, perhaps reconcile us with ourselves. So after twenty-some pieces later of woven tapestry of words, we cradle our hands together, holding a hefty bronze key the size of his palm. There are cracks all over from how it's puzzled together, but it's in the proper shape of a key, and most of all, even if it was once broken, it looks whole again.