I once had a dreams of becoming a beautiful poet but upon an unfortunate series of events some of those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again sparkling and broken.But I didnt really mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is.

Live in hope. Because things do happen. Things do change. Worry really is futile. Dont fear the future. Dreams do come true.

Her world fragmented into dozens of sharp cutting shards shedding the salty blood and saltier tears that ringed the bitter cocktail of her despair. She was caterpillar and butterfly both caught in a cocoon of raw nerves and open sores she was insanity wrapped up in the thin transient wrappings of a temporary lucidity and she was afraid because an innate desire lay in the bottom reaches of her psyche for the very poison that was killing her.

She sleeps. And now she wakes each day a little less. And each day takes less and less nourishment as if grudging the least moment of wakefulness for from the movement under her eyelids and the somnolent gestures of her hands and feet it seems as if her dreams grow more urgent and intense as if the life she lives in the closed world of dreams is now about to possess her utterly as if her small increasingly reluctant wakenings were an interpretation of some more vital existence so she is loath to spend even those necessary moments of wakefulness with us wakings strange as her sleepings. Her marvellous fate - a sleep more lifelike than the living a dream which consumes the world.

If nature has taught us anything it is that the impossible is probable

One of the characteristics of the dream is that nothing surprises us in it. With no regret we agree to live in it with strangers completely cut off from our habits and friends.

One loses as one grows older something of the lightness of ones dreams one begins to take life up in both hands and to care more for the fruit than the flower and that is no great loss perhaps.

The human soul has still greater need of the ideal than of the real. It is by the real that we exist it is by the ideal that we live.

Who am I Im just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure I sink the boat of love but that comes later. And yes I swallow glass but that comes later.

Someone smashed a flutterfler and without even thinking she touched her Stone and used Wyrd to piece its broken body back together. She filled its empty vessels with dreams and it became the stuff it used for blood. It brushed her cheek with its wings then flew off -- dancing in the hot air.