Is Magic Not Enough To Live For?

You Prefer Not To See The Gears Of The Clock, As To Better Tell Time.

There Is A Movement Happening, A Quiet One. A Low-profile, Low-resolution Revolution. Comprised Of Writers And Dreamers, Of Guerrilla Artists And Thought-ninjas. Those With Something To Say. They Communicate Through Text Inscribed On True Public Spaces, Rather Than Blogs And Forums. Choosing Fewer Words, Even Without Being Bound By 140 Character Limits. Using Ink Instead Of Pixels. Sending Messages In Living, Breathing Space. Pens Scream Louder Into The Void. Even If Permanent Ink Is Not Aptly Named.

Which Tent Is Your Favourite?" He Asks. "the Ice Garden," Celia Answers, Without Even Pausing To Consider. "why Is That?" Marco Asks. "because Of The Way It Feels," She Says. "it's Like Walking Into A Dream. As Though It Is Someplace Else Entirely And Not Simply Another Tent.

I Have You Here, All Around Me. I Sit In The Ice Garden To Get A Hint Of This, This Way That You Make Me Feel. I Felt It Even Before I Knew Who You Were, And Every Time I Think It Could Not Possibly Get Any Stronger, It Does.

Follow Your Dreams Bailey. Be They Harvard Or Somehing Else Entirely. No Matter What That Father Of Yours Says, Or How Loudly He Might Say It. He Forgets That He Was Someone's Dream Once, Himself