Esse Quam Videri," Celia Says. "to Be,

It Is Destroying Me That I Cannot Ask You To Dance.

I Have Tried To Let You Go And I Cannot. I Cannot Stop Thinking Of You. I Cannot Stop Dreaming About You.

I Find I Think Of Myself Not As A Writer So Much As Someone Who Provides A Gateway, A Tangential Route For Readers To Reach The Circus. To Visit The Circus Again, If Only In Their Minds, When They Are Unable To Attend It Physically. I Relay It Through Printed Words On Crumpled Newsprint, Words That They Can Read Again And Again, Returning To The Circus Whenever They Wish, Regardless Of Time Of Day Or Physical Location. Transporting Them At Will. When Put That Way, It Sounds Rather Like Magic, Doesn't It? P.369

Like Stepping Into A Fairy Tale Under A Curtain Of Stars.

I Don’t Have The Time To Devote To Circles Or Covens. I Have To Fit Things In When And Where I Can, In Stolen Moments And Cups Of Coffee. Stirring Clockwise To Conjure. Widdershins To Banish. There’s Never Enough Time, And Rarely Enough Caffeine, But I Make Do With What I Have. Besides, Cauldrons And Pointy Hats Are Overrated. Sometimes I See Other Customers Practicing. Pouring Their Cream And Sugar With Studied Intent. Stirring With Purpose. I Add An Extra Spoonful Of Sugar To My Own Coffee For Them, To Make All Of Our Enchantments Sweeter.