The Circus Looks Abandoned And Empty. But

Wine Is Bottled Poetry, He Thinks.

And Then He Tells Her Stories. Myths He Learned From His Instructor. Fantasies He Created Himself, Inspired By Bits And Pieces Of Others Read In Archaic Books With Crackling Spines.

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.

I Think That's A Hallmark Of A Really Good Story That It Has Readers That It Speaks To More Than Others.

I Do Not Mourn The Loss Of My Sister Because She Will Always Be With Me, In My Heart," She Says. "i Am, However, Rather Annoyed That My Tara Has Left Me To Suffer You Lot Alone. I Do Not See As Well Without Her. I Do Not Hear As Well Without Her. I Do Not Feel As Well Without Her. I Would Be Better Off Without A Hand Or A Leg Than Without My Sister. Then At Least She Would Be Here To Mock My Appearance And Claim To Be The Pretty One For A Change. We Have All Lost Our Tara, But I Have Lost A Part Of Myself As Well.