It was a scruffy-haired, tattoo-covered, cuddly, drunk Manx (met in New Zealand, missed in Europe, but found in America) who first spoke aloud of our “vagabondic” lives. And I suppose connecting those geographical dots does merit the label, but in truth this tale commences earlier.
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Here grows an offbeat volume; one which presses to achieve a dialogic bridge connecting the literary mind with its creative soul while granting quarter to the fallible hand. Welcome, friends, to Vagabond Wordworks.
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