Books May Well Be The Only True

I Heard A Sigh, As Though The Books Were Breathing. I Felt That This Was Where I Belonged. This Was Where I Lived.

I Wrote To Find Beauty And Purpose, To Know That Love Is Possible And Lasting And Real, To See Day Lilies And Swimming Pools, Loyalty And Devotion, Even Though My Eyes Were Closed, And All That Surrounded Me Was A Darkened Room. I Wrote Because That Was Who I Was At The Core, And If I Was Too Damaged To Walk Around The Block, I Was Lucky All The Same. Once I Got To My Desk, Once I Started Writing, I Still Believed Anything Was Possible.

Love Is Worth The Sum Of Itself, And Nothing More.

I Don't Think I Make Much Of A Distinction Between The 'real' And The 'fantastic.' They Both Seem To Be Threads In The Same Cloth As Far As I'm Concerned.

People Want To Ignore What They Can't Understand. They're Looking For Logic At Any Cost.