You know our Alice. She plays hide-and-seek but sometimes forgets to ask someone to look for her.
To grow a song, you must plant a note.
Ah, the inner eye blinks, and the spirit trembles, at the dangerous cost of seeing one’s self as one is.
In my raveling thoughts I flew away, as if my spirit were nestled in the breast feathers of some passing hornbill or waxwing.
It was mild monsters like these that made Jack the Ripper go after young women, she decided: who could tolerate yielding the world to someone who behaved as if she had given birth to the very world herself?
You need my help? What for? Bread, cash, a fake identity to help you slip sideways through the cracks? Tell me what you need, tell me why I should help, and I’ll see what I can do. In memory of Elphaba. You knew her.” Her head titled again, but up, this time, and it was to keep the sudden wetness from spilling into her carefully colored false eyelashes. “You knew my Elphie!
Lot of talky-talk in there, they had to open the windows to let the words out,
No,” she cried, “no, no, I’m not a harem, I’m not a woman, I’m not a person, no.
Books fall open, you fall in. When you climb out again, you’re a bit larger than you used to be.
And what new life can emerge from a book. Any book, maybe.