This was a little house, with a ceiling that kept getting higher and higher, a hot place with no windows. This was anger.

This was a little house, with a ceiling that kept getting higher and higher, a hot place with no windows. This was anger.

I know of witches who whistle at different pitches, calling things that don't have names.

It's true that writing can give new forms to concepts that existed previously with far less clarity, but in terms of the other half of a story's story - the way a story is received and interpreted and used - the audience plays a part in that too.

Would that be dangerous, to not look while being looked at?

Because things grow. Wherever there is air and light and open space, things grow.

Wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. The poem tells me it’s no big deal that I’m not like Snow. I can be another thing; I’m meant to be another thing.