Timing Is A Sensitive Thing.

You May Tell A Tale That Takes Up Residence In Someone's Soul

I Couldn't Tell The Difference Between What Was Real And What I Wanted To Be Real.

I Find I Think Of Myself Not As A Writer So Much As Someone Who Provides A Gateway, A Tangential Route For Readers To Reach The Circus. To Visit The Circus Again, If Only In Their Minds, When They Are Unable To Attend It Physically. I Relay It Through Printed Words On Crumpled Newsprint, Words That They Can Read Again And Again, Returning To The Circus Whenever They Wish, Regardless Of Time Of Day Or Physical Location. Transporting Them At Will. When Put That Way, It Sounds Rather Like Magic, Doesn't It? P.369

Trapped In Silence, Marco Traces Apologies And Adorations Across Celia's Body With His Tongue. Mutely Expressing All The Things He Cannot Speak Aloud. He Finds Other Ways To Tell Her, His Fingers Leaving Faint Trails Of Ink In Their Wake. He Savors Every Sound He Elicits From Her. The Entire Room Trembles As They Come Together. And Though There Are A Great Many Fragile Objects Contained Within It, Nothing Breaks.

When You Meet Someone New Who Instantly Gets You, Your Sense Of Humor And Your Attitudes And Your Worldview, Even If Theirs Are Different - And You Get Them In Return. You Both Talk And Talk And Agree And Laugh And Nod And Yes, Yes, Of Course You Should Get Another Round Of Drinks.