You May Tell A Tale That Takes

Only The Ship Is Made Of Books, Its Sails Thousands Of Overlapping Pages, And The Sea It Floats Upon Is Dark Black Ink.

I'm An Emotional Sort Of Person In General And I Have A Vivid Imagination, So I Feel The Whole Spectrum Of Emotion Strongly When I Write.

Taking His Time, As Though He Has All Of It In The World, In The Universe, From The Days When Tales Meant More Than They Do Now, But Perhaps Less Than They Will Someday, He Draws A Breath That Releases The Tangled Knot Of Words In His Heart, And They Fall From His Lips Effortlessly. "the Circus Arrives Without Warning.

Our Instructors Do Not Understand How It Is. To Be Bound To Someone In Such A Way. They Are Too Old, Too Out Of Touch With Their Emotions. They No Longer Remember What It Is To Live And Breathe Within The World. They Think It Simple To Pit Any Two People Against Each Other. It Is Never Simple. The Other Person Becomes How You Define Your Life, How You Define Yourself. They Become As Necessary As Breathing. Then They Expect The Victor To Continue On Without That. It Would Be Like Pulling The Murray Twins Apart And Expecting Them To Be The Same. They Would Be Whole But Not Complete.

It's Too Late. It Was Too Late By The Time I Arrived In London To Turn Your Notebook Into A Dove; There Were Too Many People Already Involved. Anything Either Of Us Does Has An Effect On Everyone Here, On Every Patron Who Walks Through Those Gates. Hundreds If Not Thousands Of People. All Flies In A Spiderweb That Was Spun When I Was Six Years Old And Now I Can Barely Move For Fear Of Losing Someone Else.