I hate the thought of her being forced into a box that doesn't fit her. Of having her wings cut off, her sight blinded, her hearing muted, her voice stilled.

The thing with pretending you're in a good mood is that sometimes you can.

When all's said and done, all roads lead to the same end. So it's not so much which road you take, as how you take it.

T.H. moved through the forest like the melody of a well-known song, in perfect harmony with his surroundings.

There's never an easy route to the things that matter.

I realize that for all my penchant in believing that there's more to the world than what we can see, that folk tales and fairy tales are based on real, if forgotten events, I never accepted that part of it as being real.