So the good prince was a murderer and the evil queen wasn't a witch after all.

Don't think you haven't lived long enough to have a story to tell.

It's not the mistakes I made but how I responded to them

Like how stars might sound. Or moons But not mountains. Too floaty for mountains. It's a sound like one planet singing to another, high stretched and full of different voices starting at different notes and sloping down to other different notes but all weaving together in a rope of sound that's sad but not sad and slow but not slow and all singing one word. One word.

Why can't we learn to live with how we are? And whatever anybody chooses is okay by the rest of us?

And then a low and powerful sound rumbles thru the sky, like some giant, deep horn. A sound God would make when he wanted yer attenshun.

I was only following orders," the Mayor mocks. "The refuge of scoundrels since the dawn of time.