Anything seems possible at night when the rest of the world has gone to sleep.

And what is wrong with playing with words? Words love to be played with, just like children or kittens do!

We have to allow ourselves to see what there is to see, and we have to imagine.

Yes. But sad's alright. Sad's just apart of everything

I sit in my tree I sing like the birds My beak is my pen My songs are my poems.

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.

We come to a lamp beside the pathway, and suddenly we stop walking, and we start to dance, and we glitter in the shafts of light, like stars, like flies, like flakes of dust.