Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.

Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.

It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here

I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin. I want.

I think there is just a vein of humanity that really loves animals and really loves to read about them.

Being the survivor stinks.