No One Is Ever Ordinary.

How Massively The Mountains Stand, While Low To The Ground The Sand Blows. The Sand Blows On And On. And Then There Are No Mountains, None At All, The Sand Has Kissed And Whispered Them Away. And Still, The Sand Blows On.

Ecstasy And Vulnerability Belonged In The Same Dish. The Fear The Cup Would Be Snatched Away Was What Gave The Wine Its Savor.

Whatever The Hell I Am, I Am Me.

As A Child, My Mother Told Me Lots Of Fairy Stories, Many Her Own Invention. She, Too, Tended To Reverse The Norm.

It Was Not Apathy. It Was An Intelligent Disinterest In Those Things That Could Have No Bearing On One's Existence.