And What Is Wrong With Playing With

What Are You?" I Whispered. He Shrugged Again. "something," He Said. "something Like You, Something Like A Beast, Something Like A Bird, Something Like An Angel." He Laughed. "something Like That.

Then What Shall I Write? I Can't Just Write That This Happened Then This Happened Then This Happened To Boring Infinitum. I'll Let My Journal Grow Just Like The Mind Does, Just Like A Tree Or Beast Does, Just Like Life Does. Why Should A Book Tell A Tale In A Dull Straight Line? Words Should Wander And Meander. They Should Fly Like Owls And Flicker Like Bats And Slip Like Cats. They Should Murmur And Scream And Dance And Sing.

Writing Will Be Like A Journey, Every Word A Footstep That Takes Me Further Into Undiscovered Land.

She Finds Tales Everywhere, In Grains Of Sand She Picks Up From The Garden, In Puffs Of Smoke That Drift Out From The Chimneys Of The Village, In Fragments Of Smooth Timber Or Glass In The Jetsam. She Will Ask Them, "where Did You Come From? How Did You Get Here?" And They Will Answer Her In Voices Very Like Her Own, But With New Lilts And Squeaks And Splashes In Them That Show They Are Their Own.

I Thought How You Can Never Tell Just By Looking At Them What They Were Thinking Or What Was Happening In Their Lives. Even When You Got Daft People Or Drunk People On Buses, People That Went On Stupid And Shouted Rubbish Or Tried To Tell You All About Themselves, You Could Never Really Tell About Them Either... I Knew If Somebody Looked At Me, They'd Know Nothing About Me, Either.