I Am Like A Small

Today My Winged Horse Is Coming And I Am Carrying You Off To The Moon And On The Moon We Will Eat Rose Petals.

I Have Often Thought That With Any Luck At All I Could Have Been Born A Werewolf, Because The Two Middle Fingers On Both My Hands Are The Same Length, But I Have Had To Be Content With What I Had.

I Wonder If I Could Eat A Child If I Had The Chance.' 'i Doubt If I Could Cook One,' Said Constance.

On The Moon We Have Everything. Lettuce, And Pumpkin Pie And Amanita Phalloides. We Have Cat-furred Plants And Horses Dancing With Their Wings. All The Locks Are Solid And Tight, And There Are No Ghosts.

I Cannot Find Any Patience For Those People Who Believe That You Start Writing When You Sit Down At Your Desk And Pick Up Your Pen And Finish Writing When You Put Down Your Pen Again; A Writer Is Always Writing, Seeing Everything Through A Thin Mist Of Words, Fitting Swift Little Descriptions To Everything He Sees, Always Noticing. Just As I Believe That A Painter Cannot Sit Down To His Morning Coffee Without Noticing What Color It Is, So A Writer Cannot See An Odd Little Gesture Without Putting A Verbal Description To It, And Ought Never To Let A Moment Go By Undescribed.