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I write this from my bed. Every morning, when I'm still lying in my bed in that glorious half-awake state, I like to watch the light. The beam of light that spills through the crack in my curtains.
A place Where brown barbaloots thrive Zebras pounce In colors Colors of neons A place Of cotton candy skies And pink fluffy trees A place A place of friends And only friends Not mean people Not rude...
Why do we read. It is impossible to coin one simple answer for this, as reading means so much to so many different people.
She sat alone on those dreary days, in the back of the classroom where no one saw her or spoke with her.
I knew there was no such thing as magic. Until I found it. It seemed like I stepped into a whole new dimension, a whole new world. I discovered a secret garden, my secret garden.
Stories you read when you’re the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called.
You call me a dreamer in a derogatory tone, as if to say I am lazy or unrealistic. Rather I would say that I am a realist, just not realities other people know or see.