Anything seems possible at night when the rest of the world has gone to sleep.
I sit in my treeI sing like the birdsMy beak is my penMy songs are my poems.
And what is wrong with playing with words? Words love to be played with, just like children or kittens do!
The season of evil,” I echoed. “Protect your soul.
Drawing makes you look at the world more closely. It helps you to see what you’re looking at more clearly. Did you know that?”I said nothing.”What colour’s a blackbird?” she said.”Black””Typical!
There’s light and joy, but there’s also darkness all around and we can be lost in it.
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.
Everybody’s got the seam of goodness in them, Kit,” said Grandpa. “Just a matter of whether it can be found and brought out into the light.
The beauties of the North seemed to be intensified by the loss we had experienced there, and they drew us back to them.
We stand dead still and we listen to the night. The city drones. An owl hoots and a cat howls and a dog barks and a siren wails.We let the stars shine into us.
We come to a lamp beside the pathway, and suddenly we stop walking, and we start to dance, and we glitter in the shafts of light, like stars, like flies, like flakes of dust.
It’s called evolution. You must know that. Yes, we are.’She looked up from her book.’I would hope, though,’ she went on, ‘that we also have some rather more beautiful ancestors. Don’t you?’ –Mina
It was great to see the owls,” I said.She smiled.”Yes. They’re wild things, of course. Killers, savages. They’re wonderful.
A school for the writing of nonsense and the pursuit of extraordinary activities.
In the end she just said….. All I did was to run away for a few minutes! All I wanted was to be free!
What is the purpose of living if there are no perils to be encountered and overcome?