It Is Likely To Make Us Think

Perhaps It Is Controlling The Chaos Within More Than The Chaos Without.

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.

Something About The Circus Stirs Their Souls, And They Ache For It When It Is Absent.

I Like To Call It Nighttime Brain: The Way Your Mind Seems To Function On A Different Frequency Than It Does During Daylight Hours - Which Can Be Good Or Bad But Also Can Lead To Unexpected Epiphanies Or Experiences That Wouldn't Be The Same At Any Other Time Of Day.

She Turns Her Head, Bailey Catches Her Eye, And She Smiles At Him. Not In The Way That One Smiles At A Random Member Of The Audience When One Is In The Middle Of Performing Circus Tricks With Unusually Talented Kittens But In The Way That One Smiles When One Recognizes Someone They Have Not Seen In Some Time.