The witch was as old as the mulberry tree She lived in the house of a hundred...– — Neil Gaiman, on Twitter, telling a bedtime story to the world. (via therealdreamer)
written a long time ago
I am a woman with flesh, but I am made of dreams. I am all wisps and driftings in rainbow arcs that blow away on every breeze, then re-form to another figure. But dreams do not have fingers to lift the sparkling bits of the world, or tongues to taste them, flesh to soak them in. Dreams have only eyes to see, and fluttering throats where longing collects.