Perhaps It Is A Human

I Don't Believe In Fate," She Said At Last. "but I Do Believe In...loopholes. I Think A Lot Of What Keeps The World Going Is The Result Of Accidents — Happy Or Otherwise — And Taking Advantage Of These.

Tiny Fists Can Hurt Quite A Lot When They Hit You In The Face.

The Great Thing About Fantasy Is That You Can Drag Dreams And Longings And Hopes And Fears And Strivings Out Of Your Subconscious And Call Them 'magic' Or 'dragons' Or 'faeries' And Get To Know Them Better. But Then I Write The Stuff. Obviously I'm Prejudiced.

Roses Are For Love. Not Silly Sweet-hearts' Love But The Love That Makes You And Keeps You Whole, Love That Gets You Through The Worst Your Life'll Give You And That Pours Out Of You When You're Given The Best Instead.

...and Again She Wished For Sherwood, And The Dappled Roof Of Leaves That Never Weighed Upon Her. She Pulled Her Scarf Closer Around Her And Thought, I Would Rather Live In A Hut In The Woods; A Hut Like The One Of My First Memories, With A Clean-swept Dirt Floor, And A Brown-eyed Boy Watching Me From Behind His Mother's Skirts As I Watched Him From Behind Mine.