She Was A Wicked Thing Sometimes. All

Language Is Inexorably Tied To Power And Understanding. And Power And Understanding Are The Roots Of Magic. Just The Act Of Writing Something Down Is A Magical Act.

Anger Can Keep You Warm At Night, And Wounded Pride Can Spur A Man To Wondrous Things.

Then I Felt Something Inside Me Break And Music Began To Pour Out Into The Quiet. My Fingers Danced; Intricate And Quick They Spun Something Gossamer And Tremulous Into The Circle Of Light Our Fire Had Made. The Music Moved Like A Spiderweb Stirred By A Gentle Breath, It Changed Like A Leaf Twisting As It Falls To The Ground, And It Felt Like Three Years Waterside In Tarbean, With A Hollowness Inside You And Hands That Ached From The Bitter Cold.

I'm A Firm Supporter Of The Word Polyamory. But That One Is Close To My Heart.

Music Is A Proud, Temperamental Mistress. Give Her The Time And Attention She Deserves, And She Is Yours. Slight Her And There Will Come A Day When You Call And She Will Not Answer. So I Began Sleeping Less To Give Her The Time She Needed.