One Doesn't Generally Look Into Mirrors When

Laughter Went On And On, Like Sunlight And Stone, Even If The Human Beings Who Laughed Did Not.

I Wondered What You'd Have On The Side With A Plate Of Deep Fried Anxiety. Pickles? Coleslaw? Potato-strychnine Mash?

Tsornin's Nostrils Showed Red, But His Ears Were As Alert As Ever, And Occasionally He Would Rub His Nose Gently Against The Nape Of Her Neck, Just In Case She Was Momentarily Not Thinking About Him.

The Great Thing About Fantasy Is That You Can Drag Dreams And Longings And Hopes And Fears And Strivings Out Of Your Subconscious And Call Them 'magic' Or 'dragons' Or 'faeries' And Get To Know Them Better. But Then I Write The Stuff. Obviously I'm Prejudiced.

I Almost Wish I'd Had The Forethought To Eat A Tree Myself.