The Circus Itself Is My Personal Ideal

Sometimes I Write What I Can't Paint, And I Paint What I Can't Write. I Use A Different Part Of The Brain.

Celia Laughs And A Curl Of Her Hair Falls Across Her Cheek. Marco Tentatively Moves To Brush It Off Her Face, But Before His Fingers Reach Her, She Pushes Herself Off The Ledge, Her Silver Gown A Billowing Cloud As She Falls Onto The Pile Of Jewel-toned Cushions.

At The Center, Where A Cuckoo Bird Would Live In A More Traditional Timepiece, Is The Juggler. Dressed In Harlequin Style With A Grey Mask, He Juggles Shiny Silver Balls That Correspond To Each Hour. As The Clock Chimes, Another Ball Joins The Rest Until At Midnight He Juggles Twelve Balls In A Complex Pattern. After Midnight The Clock Begins Once More To Fold In Upon Itself. The Face Lightens And The Clouds Return. The Number Of Juggled Balls Decreases Until The Juggler Himself Vanishes. By Noon It Is A Clock Again, And No Longer A Dream.

Her Father Picks Different Names For Her As They Change Locales, But He Uses Miranda Often, Presumably Because He Knows How Much It Annoys Her.

It Is Perhaps Both A Blessing And A Curse That Fictional Worlds Spring Into My Mind Nearly Fully Formed And It Takes Quite A While To Sift Through Everything To Find The Story.