That Man Has No Shadow.

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.

You Send Me All These Roses. Every Time I Think The Last Bouquet Has Arrived, Finally, Another Turns Up. I’m Running Out Of Vases. I Didn’t Know Roses Came In So Many Colors. You Say They’re The Perfect Symbols Of Love Because They Have Thorns And Love Is Pain. I Say Life Is Pain, Highness. Anyone Who Says Differently Is Selling Something. And You Don’t Get It. You Say You Love Me, But You Don’t Speak My Language. You Don’t Even Realize I’m An Orchid Girl.

Each Of Them Always Gravitating Toward The Other. Yet Still They Do Not Touch.

This Is, In Part, Why There Is Less Magic In The World Today. Magic Is Secret And Secrets Are Magic, After All, And Years Upon Years Of Teaching And Sharing Magic And Worse. Writing It Down In Fancy Books That Get All Dusty With Age Has Lessened It, Removed Its Power Bit By Bit.

I Have Never Lied, “ Mr. Barris Counters, Standing As Well. “i Do Not Share What I Am Not At Liberty To Say. I Gave My Word And I Intend To Keep It But I Have Never Lied To You. You Never Even Asked Me, You Assumed I Knew Nothing.