You Think, As You Walk Away From

It's Not A Real Name," She Says. "not One That He's Carried With Him Always. It's One He Wears Like His Hat. So He Can Take It Off If He Wants.

The Boy Spends Most Of His Time Reading. And Writing, Of Course. He Copies Out Sections Of Books, Writes Out Words And Symbols He Does Not Understand At First But That Become Intimately Familiar Beneath His Ink-stained Fingers, Formed Again And Again In Increasingly Steady Lines.

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.

Grow Up, Bailey." "that Is Precisely What I'm Doing," Bailey Says. "i Don't Care If You Don't Understand That. Staying Here Won't Make Me Happy. It Will Make You Happy Because You're Insipid And Boring, And An Insipid, Boring Life Is Enough For You. It's Not Enough For Me. It Will Never Be Enough For Me. So I'm Leaving. Do Me A Favor And Marry Someone Who Will Take Decent Care Of The Sheep.

The Circus Arrives Without Warning. No Announcements Precede It. It Is Simply There, When Yesterday It Was Not.