It Was Not Apathy. It Was An

Ecstasy And Vulnerability Belonged In The Same Dish. The Fear The Cup Would Be Snatched Away Was What Gave The Wine Its Savor.

The So-called Real World. Human Misery And Sadness. Blind Politics And General Cruelty.

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Get The Blame For Being What It Is-- The Colour Of A Kiss, The Shadow Of A Flame. A Rose May Earn Another Name, So Call It Love; So Call It Love I Will, And Love Is Like The Sea, Which Changes Constantly, And Yet Is Still The Same.

It's Lovely. I Hate It.

As A Child, My Mother Told Me Lots Of Fairy Stories, Many Her Own Invention. She, Too, Tended To Reverse The Norm.