Not everyone is born a witch or a saint. Not everyone is born talented, or crooked, or blessed; some are born definite in no particular at all. We are a fountain of shimmering contradictions, most of us. Beautiful in the concept, if we're lucky, but frequently tedious or regrettable as we flesh ourselves out.

We start out in identical perfection: bright, reflective, full of sun. The accident of our lives bruises us into dirty individuality. We meet with grief. Our character dulls and tarnishes. We meet with guilt. We know, we know: the price of living is corruption. There isn’t as much light as there once was. In the grave we lapse back into undifferentiated sameness

Elphaba looked like something between an animal and an Animal, like something more than life but not quite Life.

No one is exempt from grief.

And a puzzle is for the piecing together, especially for the young, who still believe it can be done.

The moon rose, an opalescent goddess tipping light from her harsh maternal scimitar.

...I dabble in causes and effects.