But children robbed of love will dwell on magic.

Like kids who only ever get socks for Christmas, but still believe with all their hearts in Santa.

But children robbed of love will dwell on magic.

Want is a thing that unfurls unbidden like fungus, opening large upon itself, stopless, filling the sky. But needs, from one day to the next, are few enough to fit in a bucket, with room enough left to rattle like brittle brush in a dry wind.

For scientists, reality is not optional.

I don't *ever* write about real people. Art is supposed to be better than that. If you want a slice of life, look out the window.

It seems very safe to me to be surrounded by green growing things and water.