She who invented words, and yet does not speak; she who brings dreams and visions, yet does not sleep; she who swallows the storm, yet knows nothing of rain or wind. I speak for her; I am her own.

But this is a story, and in a story there is always someone beautiful enough." - 'The Girl with Two Skins' from A Guide to Folktales in Fragile Dialects

Every morning is a battle between the superego and the id, and I am a mere foot soldier with mud and a snooze button on her shield.

When one is traveling, everything looks brighter and lovelier.

Tell it fast before you get scared and silence yourself. You'll never wish you'd held back a little more.

These are the folk who may pass into the kingdom of heaven: the grief-stricken, lovers, scholars of a certain obsessive disposition. Brute beasts. Women who have become as men and men who have become as women. Writers of books with long titles. Only those knights who have failed to touch the Grail. Industrious women. You, and I, and a boy named Oleg, and a girl with blue hair.

Bad luck relies on absolutely perfect timing.