The way to Elfin is found on the path
That weaves through the Misty Forest
That lives between the Mountain of Vision
And the River of Reality

Water runs if you try to grasp it, but pours onto an open hand.

My cooking spoon,
My magic wand,
Of this dish,
You will be fond.

For I inhabit the spaces in between, where auras mix and hearts reach out and knowing hovers, and where sticks against each human the little burrs of others, long-ago brushed against but never forgot.

I'm pagan.

There was something about the eyes. It wasn’t the shape or the color. The was no evil glint. But there was…

… a look. It was such a look that a microbe might encounter if it could see up from the bottom end of the microscope. It said: You are nothing. It said: You are flawed, you have no value. It said: You are animal. It said: Perhaps you may be a pet, or perhaps you may be a quarry. It said: And the choice is not yours.