I Don't Think There's Anything

There Is A Movement Happening, A Quiet One. A Low-profile, Low-resolution Revolution. Comprised Of Writers And Dreamers, Of Guerrilla Artists And Thought-ninjas. Those With Something To Say. They Communicate Through Text Inscribed On True Public Spaces, Rather Than Blogs And Forums. Choosing Fewer Words, Even Without Being Bound By 140 Character Limits. Using Ink Instead Of Pixels. Sending Messages In Living, Breathing Space. Pens Scream Louder Into The Void. Even If Permanent Ink Is Not Aptly Named.

Most Maidens Are Perfectly Capable Of Rescuing Themselves In My Experience, At Least The Ones Worth Something, In Any Case.

I Made A Wish On This Tree Years Ago," Marco Says. "what Did You Wish For?" Bailey Asks. Marco Leans Forward And Whispers In Bailey's Ear. "i Wished For Her.

That's The Beauty Of It. Have You Seen The Contraptions These Magicians Build To Accomplish The Most Mundane Feats? They Are A Bunch Of Fish Covered In Feathers Trying To Convince The Public They Can Fly, I Am Simply A Bird In Their Midst.

Where Do You Get Your Ideas? People Ask. Sometimes They’re At The Bottoms Of Cups Of Tea. Sometimes They’re Lurking In My Shower. Sometimes They’re Waiting Patiently In Glass Cases In Museums.