You send me all these roses. Every time I think the last bouquet has arrived, finally, another turns up. I’m running out of vases. I didn’t know roses came in so many colors. You say they’re the perfect symbols of love because they have thorns and love is pain. I say life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something. And you don’t get it. You say you love me, but you don’t speak my language. You don’t even realize I’m an orchid girl.

I don;t think there's anything wrong with being a dreamer. There is not. But dreams have ways of turning into nightmares.

I am a fan of magic and fantasy, particularly when it's grounded in reality.

Everything I have done, every change I have made to that circus, every impossible feat and astounding sight, I have done for her.

They are enthusiasts, devotees. Addicts. Something about the circus stirs their souls, and they ache for it when it is absent. They seek each other out, these people of such specific like mind. They tell of how they found the circus, how those first few steps were like magic. Like stepping into a fairy tale under a curtain of stars… When they depart, they shake hands and embrace like old friends, even if they have only just met, and as they go their separate ways they feel less alone than they had before.

You need to understand your limitations so you can overcome them.

The rain increases and umbrellas sprout like mushrooms amongst the graves.