Publishing a book is like stuffing a note into a bottle and hurling it into the sea. Some bottles drown, some come safe to land, where the notes are read and then possibly cherished, or else misinterpreted, or else understood all too well by those who hate the message. You never know who your readers might be.

I am not my childhood,' Snowman says out loud.

Don't let the bastards grind you down.

We are a society dying, said Aunt Lydia, of too much choice.

What am I living for and what am I dying for are the same question.

But my dreaming self refuses to be consoled. It continues to wander, aimless, homeless, alone. It cannot be convinced of its safety by any evidence drawn from my waking life.

The animals have no need for speech, why talk when you are a word.