There! the last line of my new adventure novel: “And the buried treasure was never found,” a metaphor for the self I’d never quite believed in.
But then in a dream a map appeared to me, lines and colors and a big red “X” and a drawing of an urn, and inside it, heaps of precious stones.
And so I went to the place the map showed me. I dug into loam and then the deeper clay. At last I found the urn-buried gems and took them to a jeweler. He looked them over, then at me. “A jar of worthless rocks,” he said, “just a metaphor.”