Leave waspish satire and lacerating black irony for the grownups with their scotches and their loud, rasping, cocktail laughter. Here on the back steps, by the flickering light of the kitchen fire, we find ourselves real, and whole, and ready, immersed in the pages of books of the fantastic, because in our hearts, while we may never be lions, or princes, or powerful witches on broomsticks, we know ourselves for who we truly are. Fantastic.
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girlishwhimsy posted this
