But it tempts me / with whispered promises of adventure

If only someone took the time to examine her city a bit closer.

Broken teacups in her wake

Every leaf and tree, every beam of sunlight shining upon a forest clearing, feels novel and unique.

Rose vines reach for Lydia.

More important than the origins of tales, though, is the fact that they are still here and still relevant.

dragons dream with our eyes open

The hedge is a dark mass on the horizon, heavy with scarlet roses.

On or about April 1978, the division between popular art and critically acclaimed art solidified.

Galaxies watch as I float and blink and float unblinking.

Disposing of the idea that protagonists must be virtuous and good is far easier and simpler than contemplating what they should be instead.

There is no need to wait in the weeping wind.

It is not enough merely for the universe to be: it must also be shared.

now, the moon washes her skin in stars

The obsessions of the father seep into the son.

Caught in the malaise of a disenchanted world, true magic should matter more than ever to us.

It was after his death the stories started getting told.

Vita lay on a cold slab of stone, feeling disappointed with death.

Stories pursue truth.

how our village is not small / but vast, how we are made of light