dreamsinday

I don't suppose anyone has noticed anything peculiar? Not the especial sort, there's no defined lines and limits, you see, except perhaps [a pause. The loops and curls of copperplate stop and start again, as if the originator were chewing on the tip of her pen]

Perhaps it might be the kind of thing that you could only dream of.

I don't know that Market is exactly the right place to find the kinds of books I'm looking for. Stories that sing, please, recommendations. (No preference as to what, although major rather than minor might be better)

Will the rain wash away all the blood (all spreading sticky-dark and gone) or will it leave a stain?

How will we sleep at night with it against the windows, without the shadows to play guard?

It's spoiled it all. Pretty things, they look like butterflies if you catch them, if you glance rather than look -- like cats, they don't meet your eyes at least, not mine. So very very lovely, they whispered things, held out hands to join the dancing and I like dancing. But now it's all spoiled and ruined and people keep crying and I can't set it right, and the king lost his eyes and the birds haven't wings any more and we can't fly, we've forgotten.

Home please, home please now, come back, please.

What kind of riddle is best? One that rhymes or one that doesn't - because if it rhymes, perhaps it's just a poem with a question, but if it doesn't, who's to say it's a riddle at all? It could just be impertinence. You know.

Everyone is so happy today.

Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling She knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically ( found )