"Ada's dreams smelled like fire. They floated away like Chinese paper lanterns if she didn't write them down. She had to trap them with a pen. That was how it started. Not a journal, exactly, but a deck of index cards, scribbled over with encounters..."
I've been getting up before the sun lately. It's a different world when almost everyone else is still asleep. And words are different, too, closer to dreams. A good time for pages.
This is a wild soul-book