The Dead Are Often Known To Eat

Truth And Dreams Are Always Getting Muddled.

What Are You?" I Whispered. He Shrugged Again. "something," He Said. "something Like You, Something Like A Beast, Something Like A Bird, Something Like An Angel." He Laughed. "something Like That.

We Have Each Other, And Our Stories Twist And Mingle Like The Twisting Currents Of A River. We Hold Each Other Tight As We Spin And Lurch Across Our Lives. There Are Moments Of Great Joy And Magic. The Most Astounding Things Can Lie Waiting As Each Day Dawns, As Each Page Turns.

When You Grow Up", I Said, "do You Ever Stop Feeling Little And Weak?" "no," She Says. "there's Always A Little Frail And Tiny Thing Inside, No Matter How Grown-up You Are.

Books. They Are Lined Up On Shelves Or Stacked On A Table. There They Are Wrapped Up In There Jackets, Lines Of Neat Print On Nicely Bound Pages. They Look Like Such Orderly, Static Things. Then You, The Reader Come Along. You Open The Book Jacket, And It Can Be Like Opening The Gates To An Unknown City, Or Opening The Lid Of A Treasure Chest. You Read The First Word And You're Off On A Journy Of Exploration And Discovery.