I Try To See The Dark And

Ugster Vinyl Pumps, Partridge Family Records, Plastic Daisy Jewelry, Old Postcards. . . . It's A Magpie Christmas Market.

At First We Raced Through Space, Like Shadows And Light; Her Rants, My Raves; Her Dark Hair, My Blonde; Black Dresses, White. She's A Purple-black African-violet-dark Butterfly And I A White Moth. We Were Two Wild Ponies, Dawn And Midnight, The Wind Electrifying Our Manes And Our Hooves Quaking The City; We Were Photo Negatives Of Each Other, Together Making The Perfect Image Of A Girl.

What Sexual Preference Do You Hope She Has?” “happiness.” Isnt That Cool?

Metaphors Are An Interesting Example Of Creating Magic In Prose.

It's Not That I Literally Think I'm A Fearie. It's Just That I Feel So Different From Most People. And This Idea Of A Race Living Underground In Caverns, Spending All Their Days Dancing And Playing The Fiddle And Eating Flowers And Reciting Poetry And Sharing Their Dreams, That To Me Sounds Much More Real Than The Way People Live In This World, Hating And Fighting And Wanting And Hurting.