In The Dark Attics Of Our Minds,

All Forests Have Their Own Personality. I Don't Just Mean The Obvious Differences, Like How An English Woodland Is Different From A Central American Rain Forest, Or Comparing Tracts Of West Coast Redwoods To The Saguaro Forests Of The American Southwest... They Each Have Their Own Gossip, Their Own Sound, Their Own Rustling Whispers And Smells. A Voice Speaks Up When You Enter Their Acres That Can't Be Mistaken For One You'd Hear Anyplace Else, A Voice True To Those Particular Tress, Individual Rather Than Of Their Species.

We Call Them Faerie. We Don't Believe In Them. Our Loss.

Not Everything Has To Mean Something. Some Things Just Are.

The Problem With Children Is That You Have To Put Up With Their Parents.

Like Legend And Myth, Magic Fades When It Is Unused.