Her Father Picks Different Names For Her

The Circus Arrives Without Warning. No Announcements Precede It. It Is Simply There, When Yesterday It Was Not.

I Don;t Think There's Anything Wrong With Being A Dreamer. There Is Not. But Dreams Have Ways Of Turning Into Nightmares.

I Am Tired Of Trying To Hold Things Together That Cannot Be Held. Trying To Control What Cannot Be Controlled. I Am Tired Of Denying Myself What I Want For Fear Of Breaking Things I Cannot Fix. They Will Break No Matter What We Do.

He Spends The Majority Of The Evening In The Company Of Celia Bowen, Whose Elaborate Gown Changes Color, Shifting Through A Rainbow Of Hues To Compliment Whoever She Is Closest To.

There Is A Movement Happening, A Quiet One. A Low-profile, Low-resolution Revolution. Comprised Of Writers And Dreamers, Of Guerrilla Artists And Thought-ninjas. Those With Something To Say. They Communicate Through Text Inscribed On True Public Spaces, Rather Than Blogs And Forums. Choosing Fewer Words, Even Without Being Bound By 140 Character Limits. Using Ink Instead Of Pixels. Sending Messages In Living, Breathing Space. Pens Scream Louder Into The Void. Even If Permanent Ink Is Not Aptly Named.