Imaginary Friend Book Quotes

You're brave. You are the bravest person I know, and you are my friend. I don't care if you are imaginary.

Imaginary friends are like books. We're created, we're enjoyed, we're dog-eared and creased, and then we're tucked away until we're needed again.

I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t know any kids besides my cousins. I wasn’t a lonely kid—I was good at being alone. I’d read books, play with the toy that I had, make up imaginary worlds. I lived inside my head. I still live inside my head. To this day you can leave me alone for hours and I’m perfectly happy entertaining myself. I have to remember to be with people.

I hated Pinocchio. I think I was the only one in the class who hated him. Pinocchio was alive, but that was not enough for him. He could walk and talk and touch things in the real world, but he spent the whole book wanting more. Pinocchio didn’t know how lucky he was.

I read a book one day and my whole life was changed” starts Orhan Pamuk to his famous and brilliantly written book: The New Life. Some books just strike you with the very first sentence, and generally those are the ones that leave a mark in your memory and soul, the ones that make you read, come back many years later and read again, and have the same pleasure each time. I was lucky enough to have a father who was passionate about literature, so passionate that he would teach me how to read at the age of five. The very first book he bought for me was “The Little Black Fish” by Samad Behrangi. After that I started reading his other books, and at that age I had already owned a small Behrangi collection. Recently I was talking with a Persian friend about how Behrangi and his books changed my life. A girl, from another country, from kilometeters away, around the same time was also reading Behrangi’s books, and creating her own imaginary worlds with his rich and deep characters, and intense stories.

I realized at that moment - observing his form move further away without once turning back - that I’d already begun to rebuild the imaginary wall between us. I was shielding my heart with stone cold feelings again, the only way I knew to protect it. I still planned to try my hand at prayer. If God would grant me this one request, if I could keep my only friend, I would give anything in return, even the treasured books trapped beneath my arm. I’d tasted enough of a dismal life to know that a real, true friend was of greater worth than the collection of every imagined fairy tale in the world.

One of the advantages of reading books is that you get to play with someone else's imaginary friends, at all hours of the night.

This is what I meant when I said the atheistic worldview requires intellectual courage. It requires moral courage, too. As an atheist, you abandon your imaginary friend, you forgo the comforting props of a celestial father figure to bail you out of trouble. You are going to die, and you’ll never see your dead loved ones again. There’s no holy book to tell you what to do, tell you what’s right or wrong. You are an intellectual adult. You must face up to life, to moral decisions. But there is dignity in that grown-up courage. You stand tall and face into the keen wind of reality.

To understand, I destroyed myself. To understand is to forget about loving. I know nothing more simultaneously false and telling than the statement by Leonardo da Vinci that we cannot love or hate something until we’ve understood it. Solitude devastates me; company oppresses me. The presence of another person derails my thoughts; I dream of the other’s presence with a strange absent-mindedness that no amount of my analytical scrutiny can define. Isolation has carved me in its image and likeness. The presence of another person – of any person whatsoever – instantly slows down my thinking, and while for a normal man contact with others is a stimulus to spoken expression and wit, for me it is a counterstimulus, if this compound word be linguistically permissible. When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Yes, talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial, and in them intelligence gleams like an image in a mirror. The mere thought of having to enter into contact with someone else makes me nervous. A simple invitation to have dinner with a friend produces an anguish in me that’s hard to define. The idea of any social obligation whatsoever – attending a funeral, dealing with someone about an office matter, going to the station to wait for someone I know or don’t know – the very idea disturbs my thoughts for an entire day, and sometimes I even start worrying the night before, so that I sleep badly. When it takes place, the dreaded encounter is utterly insignificant, justifying none of my anxiety, but the next time is no different: I never learn to learn. ‘My habits are of solitude, not of men.’ I don’t know if it was Rousseau or Senancour who said this. But it was some mind of my species, it being perhaps too much to say of my race.

Still, when I think of early friendships, I think not of people but of books. Books were my friends, and more often than not, the characters in the books were my imaginary friends, who stepped out of the pages and walked wth me to school or sat in bed with me, talking when I was meant to be asleep. What I mean is reading was my friends. And also I mean that I learned about friendship - patience, slowness, listening, care - from reading and from reading about friendship between people.

The fictitious men in romance novels are as fake and imaginary as vampires. They're not real.

You're brave. You are the bravest person I know, and you are my friend. I don't care if you are imaginary" -- Scarlett to Bod

Outside of a dog,” Teddy said, wiggling his eyebrows and puffing on an imaginary Groucho cigar, a whole other Marx than the one Mickey alluded to, “a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.

I was from everywhere and nowhere at once, a combination of ill-fitting parts, like a platypus or some imaginary beast, confined to a fragile habitat, unsure of where I belonged. And I sensed, without fully understanding why or how, that unless I could stitch my life together and situate myself along some firm axis, I might end up in some basic way living my life alone. I didn’t talk to anyone about this, certainly not my friends or family. I didn’t want to hurt their feelings or stand out more than I already did. But I did find refuge in books.

The powerful imaginative impulse that produced Kindred had its first test runs in the escapist fantasies of a child who needed to find or invent alternative realties. By temperament and by virtue of her strict Baptist upbringing, Butler was reclusive; imaginary worlds solaced her against the pinched rewards of the actual world, and books took the place of friends.

Found in trees. Sometimes also in old silent movie theaters, seaside zoos, magic shops, hat shops, time-travel shops, topiary gardents, cowboy boots, castle turrets, comet museums, dog pounds, mermaid ponds, dragon lairs, library stacks (the ones in the back), piles of leaves, piles of pancakes, the belly of a fiddle, the bell of a flower, or in the company of wild herds of typewriters. But mostly in trees.

Pippin marveled at the vastness of the collection. How many stories did the pages of all these books hold? But not only that, what stories did the books themselves tell? Who had held these volumes? Who had loved them, hidden under a sheet, flashlight in hand, to read them into the wee hours of the morning, or screeched from a shocking twist? Imaginary people came to life through the words on the page. Book boyfriends, best friends, worlds in which people wanted to live

You probably think you know all about men, because you read a lot of romance novels, so you think you're an expert on men. But I'm gonna tell you a little secret: the men in those books are fiction. They do not at all represent how men in real life actually think. Those romance novels were written for women by women (and a few men who know what women like to read, so they write romance to make a quick buck.) When you read a book like Grey, Christian's inner monologue does not at all sound like how a man actually thinks in real life. It sounds like a woman does a poor job of imagining how a man thinks. The fictitious men in romance novels are as fake and imaginary as vampires. They're not real. Right about now, there's probably a little voice in your head, screaming: “NOOO!!! You can't say that! You can't speak for all men! Every man is different!!” True. No two dogs are alike. And yet, all dogs have something in common that makes them dogs, and makes them different from cats. The same goes for men and women. The trouble starts when cats don't realize that dogs are different. Dogs think differently, and perceive the world differently, than cats do. I'm a dog. You're a cat. And a dog knows better what it's like to be a dog than a cat does.

Gavin appeared and vanished numerous times each day checking up on me. Now and then he’d randomly pop the question, often disguising it within our conversations. “Did you know that bubbleberries are in season right now? They’re blooming all over Dreamland.” “I love those berries. They’re fun and strange.” I recalled the time that Gavin and I had burped up iridescent-purple bubbles after swallowing handfuls of berries. They were deliciously sweet. Gavin nudged me with his elbow. “Not half as strange as you are.” I laughed. “So, Annabelle, will you come with me?” I nearly spoke without thinking, but caught myself, careful not to slip and say the word, yes. “Sorry, Gavin. I can’t.

Isolation has carved me in its image and likeness. The presence of another person – of any person whatsoever – instantly slows down my thinking, and while for a normal man contact with others is a stimulus to spoken expression and wit, for me it is a counterstimulus, if this compound word be linguistically permissible. When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Yes, talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial, and in them intelligence gleams like an image in a mirror.

What to Make a Game About? Your dog, your cat, your child, your boyfriend, your girlfriend, your mother, your father, your grandmother, your friends, your imaginary friends, your summer vacation, your winter in the mountains, your childhood home, your current home, your future home, your first job, your worst job, the job you wish you had. Your first date, your first kiss, your first fuck, your first true love, your second true love, your relationship, your kinks, your deepest secrets, your fantasies, your guilty pleasures, your guiltless pleasures, your break-up, your make-up, your undying love, your dying love. Your hopes, your dreams, your fears, your secrets, the dream you had last night, the thing you were afraid of when you were little, the thing you’re afraid of now, the secret you think will come back and bite you, the secret you were planning to take to your grave, your hope for a better world, your hope for a better you, your hope for a better day. The passage of time, the passage of memory, the experience of forgetting, the experience of remembering, the experience of meeting a close friend from long ago on the street and not recognizing her face, the experience of meeting a close friend from long ago and not being recognized, the experience of aging, the experience of becoming more dependent on the people who love you, the experience of becoming less dependent on the people you hate. The experience of opening a business, the experience of opening the garage, the experience of opening your heart, the experience of opening someone else’s heart via risky surgery, the experience of opening the window, the experience of opening for a famous band at a concert when nobody in the audience knows who you are, the experience of opening your mind, the experience of taking drugs, the experience of your worst trip, the experience of meditation, the experience of learning a language, the experience of writing a book. A silent moment at a pond, a noisy moment in the heart of a city, a moment that caught you unprepared, a moment you spent a long time preparing for, a moment of revelation, a moment of realization, a moment when you realized the universe was not out to get you, a moment when you realized the universe was out to get you, a moment when you were totally unaware of what was going on, a moment of action, a moment of inaction, a moment of regret, a moment of victory, a slow moment, a long moment, a moment you spent in the branches of a tree. The cruelty of children, the brashness of youth, the wisdom of age, the stupidity of age, a fairy tale you heard as a child, a fairy tale you heard as an adult, the lifestyle of an imaginary creature, the lifestyle of yourself, the subtle ways in which we admit authority into our lives, the subtle ways in which we overcome authority, the subtle ways in which we become a little stronger or a little weaker each day. A trip on a boat, a trip on a plane, a trip down a vanishing path through a forest, waking up in a darkened room, waking up in a friend’s room and not knowing how you got there, waking up in a friend’s bed and not knowing how you got there, waking up after twenty years of sleep, a sunset, a sunrise, a lingering smile, a heartfelt greeting, a bittersweet goodbye. Your past lives, your future lives, lies that you’ve told, lies you plan to tell, lies, truths, grim visions, prophecy, wishes, wants, loves, hates, premonitions, warnings, fables, adages, myths, legends, stories, diary entries. Jumping over a pit, jumping into a pool, jumping into the sky and never coming down. Anything. Everything.

He was also pensive and neurotic, and suffered from inexplicable aches, unaccountable pains, and pervasive anxiety. He seesawed between bursts of ecstasy, which occurred when he was exposed to great art, and troughs of melancholy. His friends considered him mercurial and poetic. In his spare time, he enjoyed drawing intricate sketches of imaginary cities.

If you have an imaginary friend, you're crazy. If a group of people have an imaginary friend, it's religion.

Stanley forced a smile to his lips at the memory of the onesided romance; it was silly, after all, a stupid childhood crush. Who’d fall in love with a fictional character? That was the kind of thing you laughed about as an adult. Or at least Harriet had thought so. He couldn’t quite do it, though. Couldn’t quite see it as a joke. It had felt too real, too raw and wild and fierce, for him to dismiss it even now. It was love, of a sort, stunted and unformed as it was. For a time, it had kept him sane.

August 2014 that Cody Littley, a Ph. D candidate in computer science and Minecraft fan, had constructed a working hard drive within the world of Minecraft. What that means is that Littley had painstakingly and ingeniously assembled redstone-powered pistons into a basic device to store about one kilobyte of data. What data Littley’s device stores, of course, can be from any world. Littley could use it as a very small address book for his real or imaginary friends, or to keep a small inventory list of items either from his real-world pantry or his Minecraft-world crafting exploits. In principle, Littley could build a piston device so massively complicated that his Steve could play Minecraft on it, or perhaps even OurworldMinecraft, a game in which Steve plays around in a virtual reality version of our world. As a matter of fact, Littley can’t do this, since the programming in Minecraft does not sustain a big enough world at any given time to support the existence of such a huge contraption.

Shoulder the Sky is another story about Mureth Farm and Drumburly and the people who live there; it continues the theme of Vittoria Cottage and Music in the Hills but it is a complete novel in itself. The three books are merely strung together by the story of James and Rhoda and their friends. Mureth and Drumburly are not real places in the geographical sense of the word. There is no metalled road that leads to Drumburly (the best road to take is an easy chair before the fire on a winter’s evening), but the picture represented is artistically true of the Scottish Border Country; of the rolling hills, the rivers and the burns, of the storms and the sunshine. So, in one sense, Drumburly is real and in another it is imaginary — and the same is true of the characters in the story; they are not real individuals and yet they are true to life. To me they are real and human for I have been living amongst them and sharing their joys and sorrows for months on end. Now the time has come for me to leave Drumburly and say good-bye. D. E. STEVENSON 

How’d she take it.” Sean thought for a second. “Truthfully? She wasn’t that impressed. She knew her daddy had a plane and she wants a ride. She took it right in stride, like she’d been expecting me to show up any second.” “And you?” Aiden asked. “You take it in stride?” “Aw, hell, it wore me out so bad I fell asleep on her little bed. Slept until the sun was down. After spending about three hours with her—eating her imaginary chicken and broccoli, reading books, picking up toys, talking about bikes and dogs and playmates at school—I was shot. She has these high heels she wears. She took some to school so her friend Jason could wear them, too.” He grumbled. “While I was asleep, she painted my face with magic markers…” Aiden whooped with laughter. “Yeah, you laugh. I’ll turn her loose on you.” “I’d love that,” Aiden said. “When can I meet her?” “Gimme some time, Aiden. I’m way behind the power curve here. I don’t know anything about kids, and there is so much to know. You have no idea.” “She’s just a kid, Sean. Don’t overthink it. Enjoy her.” “Did you know that when a little kid poops, you have to check their little butt to make sure they wiped it clean? Did you know that?” Aiden chuckled. “Yes, Sean, I knew that.” “Where the hell do you learn something like that?” “I dated a woman with a couple of little kids. Haven’t you? Ever dated a single young mother?” Sean was quiet for a moment. “Not really.” “How can you not really date a young mother?” “I’ve gone out with women with kids before, yeah. But I’ve never been around the kids. I have friends with kids, but I never paid attention to that stuff. I’m in way over my head.” “Franci will help you with all that. How is Franci?” “Cautious. I told her I thought we should get married and she told me to slow down—she wants to be sure it’s the right move.” “Bullshit. She wants to be sure you’re in love with her. That you can be a lover and a family man. Don’t you know anything about women?” “Not as much as I thought I did,” Sean admitted. “My little brother the playboy,” Aiden said. “Time to take life a little more seriously, huh? I want to meet her. Rosie. Let me know the minute I can. And I’d love to see Franci again.” “You know, just because Rosie took me in stride doesn’t mean the entire Riordan clan won’t be a little overwhelming for her,” Sean said. “Let’s not throw her in the deep end of the pool, huh?” “Red hair and green eyes, I hear,” Aiden said. “Like Mom and Paddy and half our cousins. That must have been a shock.” “The second I saw her, I knew. Plus, it couldn’t be anyone else’s kid—Franci and I were tight.” He paused. “Till we weren’t.” “Well,

Create an “Inner Child” Map. Adults have a different way of viewing things compared to a child, and this activity is a kind of bridge between how you think now as an adult and your inner child. Adults usually prefer to create organizers or charts in order to plan or understand something. This time you will be creating an organizer, more specifically called a semantic map, that can help you discover your inner child. To create an “inner child” map, you can get a picture of yourself as a child, probably around the age of 7 or 8. If you do not have any pictures, then you can simply draw yourself when you were in that age. Place the picture or the drawing at the center of a piece of paper, with enough room for scribbles all around it. Then, begin recalling as much as you can all of the phrases or words that you can associate with this child version of you. Brainstorm on everything, such as your favorite color back then, the gifts that you wanted for Christmas, your nickname, your favorite movie, the book that you kept reading over and over again with a flashlight under your blanket, an imaginary friend, or the silly urban legends that you used to believe in. Once you have finished your “inner child map” you are so much closer to discovering him or her, if you haven’t already.

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” —Joshua 1:9 (NIV) Tomorrow I’m going in for one of my regular cancer tests, and today I’m fighting my “What if” fears. What if my cancer comes back? I’m nearly seven years out from being diagnosed with stage IV ovarian cancer when I was given a two-year life expectancy. I’ve beaten all odds. But a couple of doctors told me that “stage IV ovarian cancer always comes back.” So far, I’ve proven them wrong, but every time I make an appointment for a checkup, the “What if” fears start creeping in. What if my test is not good? “Don’t go there,” a friend advises me. But I have to go there. My way of dealing with my fears is to look the worst-case possibilities square in the face. I’ve even created my own scenario for this fear-facing exercise. I imagine my fears stuffed into an imaginary room. It’s a scary but sacred place, because I know that nothing in that room surprises God—and He invites me to “go there” because Jesus is there too. He walks alongside me as I explore each fear, imagining what my life would be like if that worst possibility became a reality. What if my cancer comes back? I picture Jesus answering, “If your cancer comes back, I will still be with you. I will still give you what you need, one day at a time. I will still love you with an everlasting love. And I will still give you a future with hope.” Soon, I know that even if my worst fears become reality, Jesus’ promises are still true. That gives me courage as I go off to my cancer test once again. Lord, Your promises sustain me. Always. —Carol Kuykendall Digging Deeper: Prv 1:33; Phil 4:19; 2 Pt 1:1–11

My memory of the books stretched beyond consciousness. They were there when I first opened my eyes and began to identify things like "warm," and "house," and "bed," and while I didn't know about or understand the byzantine game of passports, imaginary relatives, summonses, and exit visas, it was the breakup of Dad's library that made leaving a reality. The books were the background of my little world, and seeing them carted away by friends and relatives was like watching someone dismantle the sky.

It doesn’t always have to be that way, however. Later friendships can offer a second chance to finally get those old needs met. I often ask adults in therapy how they managed to cope with the terrible traumas they endured. The ones who coped best, even ones with horrendous histories of abuse and neglect, were those who found a friend or supporter. Somehow, even through the betrayals and abandonments, these individuals managed to connect with someone, usually a very special person who saw through the child’s surface layer of aggressiveness, withdrawal, or fear and persisted in offering a helping hand. For some survivors of abuse, this connection came from a peer, perhaps someone whose own suffering made them especially empathic. Others were supported by an adult, someone who didn’t abuse or neglect them, but treated them with respect and dignity. Still others were shut out of human connection but managed to find a friend by connecting with a pet, a doll, a character in a favorite book or an imaginary friend.

[A relative came to Ruta at one of the bookfair and said she was a relative of Leonas Stonkus, whom Ruta described as having confessed that he “had shot only one Jew”.] “No,” she says. “Not just one.” “How do you know?” “You see, when there were family parties, Leonas used to get drunk, and he would grab an imaginary machine gun and shoot at everyone present. Later, when they came to arrest him, when he saw the police, he said, “I have been waiting for you for thirty years.” Leonas was a very handsome man. And his son was also very handsome, and horribly unhappy. Later Leonas’s son committed suicide. His father was still alive serving his sentence.” Story after story makes clear something I didn't expect when writing the book: The fate of the majority of the killers was horrible. But not just their fate; the fate of their children was often tragic as well. My good friend from Samogitia comes up to the booth and says that the faces of the children of the local murderers were different somehow; they were marked in a horrible way. They were heavy drinkers, just like their fathers who had shot Jews. There was something wrong with them: They were born deaf, or they became very ill and died young. They were killed in an accident, or they committed suicide.

Just because life is hard, and always ends in a bad way, doesn’t mean that all stories have to, even if that’s what they tell us in school and in the New York Times Book Review. In fact, it’s a good thing that stories are as different as we are, one from another.

My dad who could instantly recognize me – not the face of me, but everything of who I was – in a nanosecond: the name of my childhood imaginary friend, my dissertation subject, my favourite character from my favourite book and the road names of everywhere I’ve ever lived. When I looked at his face now, I mostly saw my dad, but I sometimes saw something else in his eyes that unsettled me – sometimes it looked like everything he understood had been cut into pieces and he was trying to configure them into a collage that made sense.

When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial

When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.

You don’t really need much to be happy. A nice window, a Netflix connection, a few good books, and a loaded pantry mostly does the trick. A couple of genuine friends, a well-bruised passport, a few Instagram stalkers, and an imaginary pet couldn’t hurt either.

George had named her after the imaginary friend of Anne Frank, whose diary was one of his favorite books, and she seemed to be queen of the bookstore castle.

Dr. Arthur I. Gates said in his splendid book Educational Psychology: ‘Sympathy the human species universally craves. The child eagerly displays his injury; or even inflicts a cut or bruise in order to reap abundant sympathy. For the same purpose adults… show their bruises, relate their accidents, illness, especially details of surgical operations. “Self-pity” for misfortunes real or imaginary is, in some measure, practically a universal practice.

If thrillers entertain you, self help books inspire you. If fantacy improves your imaginary, . No doubt, books become your best friends if you show interest.

While thrillers entertain you, self help books heal you. While fantasy books improve your imaginary, educational books guide you. There's no doubt, a book can be your best friend, if you spend some time with it.

That’s plenty. Imaginary friends are like books. We’re created, we’re enjoyed, we’re dog-eared and creased, and then we’re tucked away until we’re needed again.

become at home in this imaginary world; know it as if you were an observer on the scene; become a member of its population, willing to befriend its characters, and able to participate in its happenings by sympathetic insight, as you would do in the actions and sufferings of a friend.

Over the years of this family friend abusing me, I learned that she was being molested by an older boy. I can’t play armchair psychiatrist and guess what her motives were for abusing me, but I can feel her pain and mine at the same time. She would describe her experiences in detail, and it was all so crazy because I was so young that I didn’t know anything about sex or about my private parts. My parents never talked to me about this. I mean, they taught me my body was a temple of God, but that was in reference to some imaginary guy in the future. It was never about someone who’s supposed to be a friend making you do things you don’t want to. So, I came to understand sex and my body solely in terms of power, or in this case, lack of power. I was just gonna let her do whatever it was she wanted to do because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. That’s kind of how I was in many of my adult relationships, too. At first, I held myself back, refusing to have sex until I was married. I was afraid sex, and the need I had to give pleasure no matter what, would destroy me as I let men walk all over me. I was right.

All of my best friends are imaginary, but at least the cadre of dogs that once existed in my life were real. If I had a choice between super-hero, anti-hero or villain, anti-hero would win out. Somewhere in between solves the detrimental problems that those in power refuse to deal with because of financial gain. A manifesto is nothing more than a more assertive pamphlet. The mythology of comic books was extremely creative and brilliant in concept. The imaginary world offers the psychological escape that is sometimes paramount from the real world. It creates a balance that is sometimes necessary to equalize the mind. It's like an uncomplicated form of math when you don't understand math, and explains that two plus two is four in another way. Star Trek, Star Wars, and Harry Potter were very creative concepts, whole new worlds now exist for people to inhabit. Such things create jobs, revenue, and things for people to occupy themselves with. Dystopia offers great warnings about existence, alerts and informs the populace. Take vampires and werewolves, iconic in creation, still existing after a century. There's a romance angle, and something that also allows kids to enjoy Halloween by playing dress up. Here's my point: I'm a regular person that exist in a world that needs to be fixed, explored and expanded. I'm a cog in the machine, and I don't want to be in the machine. That's what a base job is, and that job usually defines the person. Writing defines me, nothing else.

It’s just how I run. I can make magic that way.” Cute. Like having an imaginary friend. “What do you mean?” I asked.

1. The (Make-Believe) Friends Excuse My imaginary friends are tidying my room as we speak . . . . . . Laura is dusting. Boris is tidying up. Jenny is searching for my other green sock. Ronald is hoovering, but you can’t hear him because he's using an invisible hoover.