Truth And Dreams Are Always Getting Muddled.

Books. They Are Lined Up On Shelves Or Stacked On A Table. There They Are Wrapped Up In There Jackets, Lines Of Neat Print On Nicely Bound Pages. They Look Like Such Orderly, Static Things. Then You, The Reader Come Along. You Open The Book Jacket, And It Can Be Like Opening The Gates To An Unknown City, Or Opening The Lid Of A Treasure Chest. You Read The First Word And You're Off On A Journy Of Exploration And Discovery.

And What Is Wrong With Playing With Words? Words Love To Be Played With, Just Like Children Or Kittens Do!

We Have Each Other, And Our Stories Twist And Mingle Like The Twisting Currents Of A River. We Hold Each Other Tight As We Spin And Lurch Across Our Lives. There Are Moments Of Great Joy And Magic. The Most Astounding Things Can Lie Waiting As Each Day Dawns, As Each Page Turns.

They Say That Shoulder Blades Are Where Your Wings Were, When You Were An Angel," She Said. "they Say They're Where Your Wings Will Grow Again One Day.

What Are You?" I Whispered. He Shrugged Again. "something," He Said. "something Like You, Something Like A Beast, Something Like A Bird, Something Like An Angel." He Laughed. "something Like That.