Choose to believe in your own myth your own glamour your own spell a young woman who does this (even if she is just pretending) has everything.

Pulling heads off Barbies, sticking them on the TV antenna and ruining the reception. But thats how witch babies are.

When you live in a city with no stars to wish on, you have to wish on each other.

Pianos, unlike people, sing when you give them your every growl. They know how to dive into the pit of your stomach and harmonize with your roars when you’ve split yourself open. And when they see you, guts shining, brain pulsing, heart right there exposed in a rhythm that beats need need, need need, need need, pianos do not run. And so she plays.

Welcome Beauty, banish fear.

I'll be inside the one who holds you. And then I won't be.

Under the ground seep the toxins of the population that lives above. If you have to, you will eat roots and earthworms. It is always night. Candles burn in lanterns made from tin cans. When it is nighttime up above, you can crawl out, but only for a little while. You feel ashamed of your matted hair, your torn clothes, the dirt on your face. Who would want to speak to you? They are all shiny and pretty. They have parents and house with gardens. What do you have? The earth. Whole handfuls of it. The lizard people with their slit eyes and scaly skin. Your loneliness. Your longing.