They Say That Shoulder Blades Are Where

Then What Shall I Write? I Can't Just Write That This Happened Then This Happened Then This Happened To Boring Infinitum. I'll Let My Journal Grow Just Like The Mind Does, Just Like A Tree Or Beast Does, Just Like Life Does. Why Should A Book Tell A Tale In A Dull Straight Line? Words Should Wander And Meander. They Should Fly Like Owls And Flicker Like Bats And Slip Like Cats. They Should Murmur And Scream And Dance And Sing.

Yes. But Sad's Alright. Sad's Just Apart Of Everything

Anything Seems Possible At Night When The Rest Of The World Has Gone To Sleep.

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.

They Say That Shoulder Blades Are Where Your Wings Were, When You Were An Angel," She Said. "they Say They're Where Your Wings Will Grow Again One Day.