You're in fine temper," Raffin said. "Your hair is blue," she snapped back.
Tattoos. . . are the stories in your heart, written on your skin.
It's all a matter of paying attention, being awake in the present moment, and not expecting a huge payoff. The magic in this world seems to work in whispers and small kindnesses.
I do believe in an everyday sort of magic -- the inexplicable connectedness we sometimes experience with places, people, works of art and the like; the eerie appropriateness of moments of synchronicity; the whispered voice, the hidden presence, when we think we're alone.
You've got to find yourself first. Everything else'll follow.
I want to be magic. I want to touch the heart of the world and make it smile. I want to be a friend of elves and live in a tree. Or under a hill. I want to marry a moonbeam and hear the stars sing. I don't want to pretend at magic anymore. I want to be magic.
I don't want to live in the kind of world where we don't look out for each other. Not just the people that are close to us, but anybody who needs a helping hand. I cant change the way anybody else thinks, or what they choose to do, but I can do my bit.
Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup. The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.
Yes I am, I am also a Muslim, a Christian, a Buddhist, and a Jew.
War makes rattling good history.
We are poor, indeed, when we have no half-wishes left us. The heart and the imagination close the shutters the instant they are gone.