It did seem hard to be doing something heroic while everyone was too busy to notice.

Everybody knew that books were dangerous. Read the wrong book, it was said, and the words crawled around your brain on black legs and drove you mad, wicked mad.

My child, you have a flawed grasp of the nature of myth-making. I am a poet and storyteller, a creator of ballads and sagas. Pray do not confuse the exercise of the imagination with mere mendacity. I am a master of the mysteries of words, their meanings and music and mellifluous magic.

Perhaps illnesses could be left behind, just like small, badly concealed china corpses.

Oh, painted smirk of a hopeless dawn, the girl is still wearing her breeches.

You, sir, are a romantic, and I'm afraid the condition is incurable. -Eponymous Clent

Desperation is a millstone. It wears away at the very soul, grinding away pity, kindness, humanity and courage. But sometimes it whets the mind to a sharpened point and creates moments of true brilliance. And standing there, nose tickled by the dusty hide of the stuffed deer head, such a moment visited Mosca Mye.