I wanted to write a new fable and see how many rules you could break.
I fell into the books, and left myself there for safekeeping.
What's invisible to us is also crucial for our own well-being.
I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.
Capacity for love in its higher forms seems to be peculiarly human although even in humans it is still peculiar.
I was happy but happy is an adult word. You don't have to ask a child about happy, you see it. They are or they are not. Adults talk about being happy because largely they are not. Talking about it is the same as trying to catch the wind. Much easier to let it blow all over you.