You Told Me Love Was Fickle And

How Are You Managing To Keep Everyone From Aging?” Celia Asks After A While. “very Carefully,” Marco Answers.

You Can Say Anything With A Post-it. I’m Not Entirely Sure Why That Is. Maybe The Friendliness Of The Squares Makes It Easier. A Square Is Nicely Compact And Less Intimidating Than A Full Page. And They Come In Cheerful Colors. Non-white Paper Is Kind Of Inherently Festive. Or Maybe Paper That Sticks Feels More Important Than Paper That Can Blow Away. (though You Can Move Them, If You Need To Put Them Somewhere Else.) They Might Not Be As Lasting As Words Carved In Stone, But Post-it Thoughts Will Stay. For Awhile, At Least.

I Am Tired Of Trying To Hold Things Together That Cannot Be Held. Trying To Control What Cannot Be Controlled. I Am Tired Of Denying Myself What I Want For Fear Of Breaking Things I Cannot Fix. They Will Break No Matter What We Do.

I'm A Firm Believer That Lighting Affects Mood, And Twinkly Lights On Strings Bring Something Magical To Occasions Ranging From Concerts To Weddings, Though I'm Fond Of Using Them As Year-round Home Decor. There's A Reason Why They're Sometimes Called Fairy Lights. When The Night Is Right, There Aren't Any Strings At All.

The Boy Spends Most Of His Time Reading. And Writing, Of Course. He Copies Out Sections Of Books, Writes Out Words And Symbols He Does Not Understand At First But That Become Intimately Familiar Beneath His Ink-stained Fingers, Formed Again And Again In Increasingly Steady Lines.