Danielle

“And when you never look away all your life, by the time you are thirteen you have done twenty years taking in the laundry of the world.”
― Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

“You could make yourself a little crazy, even certifiable, if you insisted that life always proceed according to some this-because-that system of logic. Occasionally you had to accept the inexplicable.”
― Dean Koontz, The Face

“Why love the boy in a March field with his kite braving the sky? Because our fingers burn with the hot string singeing our hands. Why love some girl viewed from a train bent to a country well? The tongue remembers iron water cool on some long lost noon. Why weep at strangers dead by the road? They resemble friends unseen in forty years. Why laugh when clowns are hot by pies? We taste custard we taste life. Why love the woman who is your wife? Her nose breathes the air of a world that I know; therefore I love that nose. Her ears hear music I might sing half the night through; therefore I love her ears. Her eyes delight in seasons of the land; and so I love those eyes. Her tongue knows quince, peach, chokeberry, mint and lime; I love to hear it speaking. Because her flesh knows heat, cold, affliction, I know fire, snow, and pain. Shared and once again shared experience. Billions of prickling textures. Cut one sense away, cut part of life away. Cut two senses; life halves itself on the instant. We love what we know, we love what we are. Common cause, common cause, common cause of mouth, eye, ear, tongue, hand, nose, flesh, heart, and soul.”
― Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

“I have this dream where words, millions of
them, are on wings around me. Some are
grey and brown. There are some that are
easy to grab and I've soon got a fistful of
those. But some of them glow in shiny,
shiny colours and they pirouette at my out-
stretched fingertips.
I drop the easy ones like litter at my feet. I
climb a chair to get at the glittery stuff.
Then a ladder.
When I've climbed I see the gold one - a
long, long word that's just lovely in the
mouth. I'm soon teetering on a chimney
pot but it goes as I snatch at it. It flies on
purpose a millimetre from my nail tips as I
swat about. Precariously on tiptoes now. Eyes shut,
jumping to grab. My fingers are crammed
with words in
silver colours,
copper
colours, reds like autumn leaves. But I still
bat uselessly towards the gold word, which
flaps higher and higher until I loose my
footing on the chimney and fall, fall into
the stark white of the empty page.”
― Maria Wallingford