The Rain Increases And Umbrellas Sprout Like

You Can Say Anything With A Post-it. I’m Not Entirely Sure Why That Is. Maybe The Friendliness Of The Squares Makes It Easier. A Square Is Nicely Compact And Less Intimidating Than A Full Page. And They Come In Cheerful Colors. Non-white Paper Is Kind Of Inherently Festive. Or Maybe Paper That Sticks Feels More Important Than Paper That Can Blow Away. (though You Can Move Them, If You Need To Put Them Somewhere Else.) They Might Not Be As Lasting As Words Carved In Stone, But Post-it Thoughts Will Stay. For Awhile, At Least.

You Think, As You Walk Away From Le Cirque Des Rêves And Into The Creeping Dawn, That You Felt More Awake Within The Confines Of The Circus. You Are No Longer Quite Certain Which Side Of The Fence Is The Dream.

The Finest Of Pleasures Are Always The Unexpected Ones.

And There Are Never Really Endings, Happy Or Otherwise. Things Keep Going On, They Overlap And Blur, Your Story Is Part Of Your Sister's Story Is Part Of Many Other Stories, And There Is No Telling Where Any Of Them May Lead.

We Must Put Effort And Energy Into Anything We Wish To Change.