Something about the circus stirs their souls, and they ache for it when it is absent.

Only the ship is made of books, its sails thousands of overlapping pages, and the sea it floats upon is dark black ink.

He remembers when he was very small his mother once said she wished happiness and adventure for him. If this does not count as adventure, he is not sure what does.

This is not magic. This is the way the world is, only very few people take the time to stop and note it.

Perhaps it is controlling the chaos within more than the chaos without.

They say it's darkest before the dawn, but it also tend to be quietest, and the quiet lets you hear yourself better.

I have absurdly vivid dreams.