If I Am Just Home And Writing,

The Origin Of Each Story Is Unique.

I Have Learned How To Love. And It's A Terrible Thing. I'm Broken. My Heart Is Broken. Help Me.

I Love Adventurous Travel. I Also Love Pancakes, And Making Pancakes For Other People. You Would Definitely Find Me In The Airy Treetop As Opposed To Below Ground.

Seasons Passed, Fall And Winter And Spring And Summer. Leaves Blew In Through The Open Door Of Lucius Clarke’s Shop, And Rain, And The Green Outrageous Hopeful Light Of Spring. People Came And Went, Grandmothers And Doll Collectors And Little Girls With Their Mothers. Edward Tulane Waited. The Seasons Turned Into Years. Edward Tulane Waited. He Repeated The Old Doll’s Words Over And Over Until They Wore A Smooth Groove Of Hope In His Brain: Someone Will Come; Someone Will Come For You.

Don't Drop Him," Said Peter's Mother To His Father. "don't You Dare Drop Him." She Was Laughing. "i Will Not," Said His Father. "i Could Not." For He Is Peter Augustus Duchene, And He Will Always Return To Me. Again And Again, Peter's Father Threw Him Up In The Air. Again And Again, Peter Felt Himself Suspended In Nothingness For A Moment, Just A Moment, And Then He Was Pulled Back, Returned To The Sweetness Of The Earth And The Warmth Of His Father's Waiting Arms. "see?" Said His Father To His Mother. "do You See How He Always Comes Back To Me?