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.

If you should find yourself in a place that is indifferent to you and there is someone there that your spirit stretches to, then that person is kin.

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

Sometimes I feel weird about time. Sometimes I feel that it doesnt go in the order we perceive it. There are... repetitions that maybe we decide not to notice because it is simpler. I like to pick up on those moments.

Home is where your teapots are.

Imagine having a mother who worries that you read too much. The question is, what is it that's supposed to happen to people who read too much? How can you tell when someone's crossed the line.