Pixie Dust Quotes

All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.

When I was six years old I sprinkled sugar on my head, convinced myself it was pixie dust, wished myself invisible, and walked into the boys' bathroom at school.

Tagged by a whiny little vamp. Rache, take this sword and stick it in me. Just go and stick it in me. I'm a back-drafted, crumpled-winged, dust-caked, dew-assed excuse of a backup. Worthless as a pixy condom. Taken down by my own partner. Just tape my ass shut and let me fart out my mouth.

And to think, it all started with a little bit of faith. Misplaced trust. Missing pixie dust. And a villain who just needed to steal a little love.

All you need is Faith, Trust and a little Pixie Dust

Faith. Trust. and Pixie Dust.

Listen to yourself You really expect me to believe that my brother is some kind of pixie with glitter dust and butterfly wings.” “Don’t be stupid ” Rob said mildly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re thinking ‘Tinker Bell’ which is a typical human response to the word faery. The real fey aren’t like that at all.

Believe it. The world isn't all fairy tales and pixie dust. You need to grow up and face reality.

You need to have faith and trust, Moira." "And a little bit of pixie dust?

Tagged by a whiny little vamp," he said gesturing. "Rache, take this sword and stick it in me. Just go and stick it in me. I'm a back-drafted, crumpled-winged, dust-caked, dew-assed excuse of a backup. Worthless as a pixy condom. Taken down by my own partner. Just tape my ass shut and let me fart out my mouth.

Love doesn't happen because you find the right bricks and cement to build it. Love really is...pure magic. It comes from" - she gestured toward the heavens - "out there. And if falls like pixie dust where it wants. And when id does...you can fly." (Rosemary)

Love, Trust & Pixie Dust !

I look at her pink glossy lips and I know if I kissed her, she would leave sparkles all over my face. “Pixie dust,” I whisper and she cocks her head to the side.

No plan,' I sighed. The paper bird had flown away without my noticing, and I wondered briefly where it had gone. 'I need faith, Light, and friendship, apparently.' Pixie dust. Don't forget that. It's very important. 'Shut up,' I said, scratching him behind the ear.

The stars shine brightest in the darkness, Claire. Pixie dust chases back the shadows. Maybe that’s it— maybe that’s what the shadows are all about. Finding the light through them, and…” he tilts his head back. “We all have our shadows to fight, but maybe that’s so we can grow stronger.” - Peter

Rock-star sweat is like pixie dust - it makes magical things happen.

My name is Rosalie. I may be smaller, I may be weaker, but I was born free, should die free. You will not take this from me.

I like two types of dust: pixie dust and dust from old, first edition books.

Plot, structure, and character transformation. Or what I like to call the “Holy Trinity of Story.” All together, these three elements are pure storytelling pixie dust. The three essential building blocks of every great story ever told.

With a little cry, I slid my hand behind his neck and pulled him to me for a real kiss. The assembled people cheered, and I closed my eyes as the sound of pixy wings wreathed us. Give up? Leave? echoed in my thoughts as his lips met mine, holding both a promise and a desire. Never, I answered myself as we parted and, hands still connected, turned to those who meant most to us and were welcomed in between the pixy dust and the blue butterflies. THE BEGINNING

Pixy dust thickened to make my eyes water, but after the loud complaints and muttered disappointment, the Disney nightmare subsided as quickly as it had come.

If it is pixie dust, I guess that makes me Peter Pan - the boy who never grows up." ~Johnny Kinross

All you need is faith, trust, and a little pixie dust.

With his eyes clamped shut, he released a groan as he slid out and back inside me. I lay there and watched him, tears spilling from my eyes as I wondered what the hell was happening and how on this earth anything, and I mean anything, could feel like this. Because I’d be damned if his dick wasn’t made of pixie dust, blood diamonds, that delicious Olive Garden unlimited salad, and childhood dreams or some shit.

You fuckin’ bulldozed me, Pix. You, my tiny dark pixie, made all my defences crumble to dust.

The sky is yours, Pixie-Girl.” - Peter

Don't you understand? You mean more to me that anything in this entire world.

But there's one thing all the pixies do have in common. There's no magic left in any of their wings. No shimmer. No luminescence. And I have this awful feeling that my wings look no different.

Holy dust,” I murmured, looking for it among the clutter. Jenks’s wings hummed and he dropped to hover over the envelope that I’d gathered from the slats under my bed, the only place the pixies didn’t clean. It was on sanctified ground, so I figured it was holy enough. And God knew my bed hadn’t seen any action lately.

You got a little bit famous. Even a little bit of fame can mess with your head. It’s a cognitive disease, you know, fame? It used to only be for royalty and we know what they’re like. I’m not much of a Freudian, but something about fame makes the id and the superego devour the ego like anacondas in a cage, right before they cannibalize each other. Fame warps your identity, metastasizes your anxieties, and hollows you out like a jack-o’-lantern. It’s sparkly pixie dust that burns whatever it touches like acid.

All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.

Parent time is like fairy time but real. It is magic without pixie dust and spells. It defies physics without bending the laws of time and space.

All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust

All the world is made of faith, trust, and pixie dust.

Where do I fit? Why am I here? Will I love, be loved? We are born with a fixed expiration date, yet we carry on, walking this earth the best we can until we’re pixie dust.

Viewed in the right light, a little sprinkle of free market pixie dust can turn the drabbest of public sector services (sewerage, for example) into a rainbow-hued profit unicorn.

And to think, it all started with a little bit of faith. Misplaced trust. Missing pixie dust. And a villain who just needed to steal a little love.

I may be a pawn,” I said as I locked my shaking knees. “But I’ve been to the other side and survived the trip back and can move like a queen.” Pixy dust sifted over us, and my skin burned. “Don’t piss me off.

I found a room, both quiet and slow, a room where the walls are thick. Where pixie dust is kept in jars, and paper rockets soar to Mars, and battles leave no lasting scars as clocks forget to tick. I guard this room, both small and bare, this room in which stories live. Where Peter Pan and Alice play, and Sinbad sails at dawn of day, and wolves cry 'boy' to get their way when ogres won’t forgive. With you I’ll share my hiding place, this room under cloak and spell. We’ll snuggle up inside a nook, and read a venturous story book, that makes us question in a look what nonsense fairies tell. In fictive plots and fabled ends, Our happy-e’er-afters dwell!

You might like Tinker Bell and hope one day will be all pixie dust and beauty, but you’re much more like Maleficent—fighting for those who can’t always fight for themselves and willing to lose her ability to fly to protect many.

THE WOMAN seemed to spend forever staring into the patrol car’s side mirror. When she finally straightened back up to look at him, her posture drooped. The Colt dangled from her arm like a burdensome weight. Tinkerbell had run out of pixie dust.

But if you start using malia on a grander scale than that, for example to raze a city or slaughter a whole army or any of the thousand other useless things that I know exactly how to do, you can’t get enough of it except by sucking in mana—or life force or arcane energy or pixie dust or whatever you want to call it; mana’s just the current trend—from things complicated enough to have feelings about it and resist you. Then the power gets tainted and you’re getting psychically clawed as you try and yank away their mana, and often enough they win.

Parent time is like fairy time but real. It is magic without pixie dust and spells. It defies physics without bending the laws of time and space. It is that truism everyone offers but no one believes until after they have children: that time will actual speed, fleet enough to leave you jet-lagged and whiplashed and racing all at once. Your tiny, perfect baby nestles in your arms his first afternoon home, and then ten months later, he's off to his senior year of high school. You give birth to twins so small and alike, they lie mirrored, each with a head in the palm of one hand while their toes reach only to the crooks of your elbow, but it's only a year before they start looking at colleges. It is so impossible yet so universally experienced that magic is the only explanation. Except then there are also the excruciating rainy Sundays when the kids are whiny, bored, and beastly, and it takes a hundred hours to get from breakfast to bedtime, the long weekends when you wonder whose demonic idea it was to trap you in your home with you bevy of abominable children for a decade without school.

But I’ve been to the other side and survived the trip back and can move like a queen.” Pixy dust sifted over us, and my skin burned. “Don’t piss me off.” Behind

Oh honey, who cares if your blood is basically like vampire crack? Hello? Did you not get the memo? Vampires are hot!

Tinker Bell hesitantly leaned over. She kissed him ever so gently on the lower lip. A fairy kiss, invisible and seemingly ephemeral, whose effects and existence would last as long as pixie dust. Perhaps his breathing eased. Perhaps he looked a trifle more peaceful, despite his eyes rolling beneath their lids. She wondered what it meant, the touch of human lips on her own- if it left any trace on her.

The fairy was flying in loops and swirls around her, shedding fairy dust as she went. Throwing it at Wendy. Delighted, the human girl raised her arms up to fully experience what was happening. Delicate golden sparkles floated down and kissed her skin. Where they touched, Wendy felt lighter. Tiny pains she hadn't even realized she felt entirely disappeared, and any weariness vanished. She felt rested, energetic, and- airy.

There was dusting and sweeping to do, books to be put away. Lovely books. It didn't matter to Dick if they were serious leather-bound tomes or paperbacks with garish covers. He loved them all, for they were filled with words, and words were magic to this hob. Wise and clever humans had used some marvelous spell to imbue each book with every kind of story and character you could imagine, and many you couldn't. If you knew the key to unlock the words, you could experience them all - Pixel Pixies

Maybe he'll go away if we don't answer," I said, and Jenks rose - sixty feet in a mere second. In another second, he dropped back down. "He's coming around back," he said, his gold dust looking black through my sunglasses. Damn it back to the Turn. "Pix the sucker," I said, then waved my hand in negation when Jumoke clearly thought I was serious. The small pixy looked about six, and he took everything literally. [...] "Let him come back," I finally said. "If this is about that paper of his, he can suck my toes and die.

If you write anything meaningful over there, June, keep it far away from this city. They will turn a story about glue-addicted gypsy children in the Balkans into an animated musical about a tribe of pixie-sized fairy-dust-loving flamenco dancers who live happily ever after with their dancing bears.

Parent time is like fairy time but real. It is magic without pixie dust and spells. It defies physics without bending the laws of time and space. It is that truism everyone offers but no one believes until after they have children: that time will actually speed, fleet enough to leave you jet-lagged and whiplashed and racing all at once. Your tiny, perfect baby nestles in your arms his first afternoon home, and then ten months later, he’s off to his senior year of high school. You give birth to twins so small and alike, they lie mirrored, each with a head in the palm of one hand while their toes reach only to the crooks of your elbows, but it’s only a year before they start looking at colleges. It is so impossible yet so universally experienced that magic is the only explanation. Except

She is here amongst us, but she is not alone,” one of the pixie dust angels told the queen of the woods. “And?” the queen demanded. “She is with some boy. Both look strange, if you ask me.” “Strange, how?” the queen asked. “Strange. You know they don’t look as we do.” “How do they look?” The queen turned and looked at the pixie angel with her purple eye that sat in the middle of her forehead. “I don’t know. They have things like the little people in Vanduesa.” “What things might you be referring to?” the queen’s voice rose impatiently. “You know those things that the little people get around with.” The queen laughed, revealing yellowing teeth. “Oh, the things the little people in Vanduesa refer to as legs.” “That’s it.” The pixie angel did an excited flip, and then nodded her head.

What Wendy felt was a spray of something that could only be described as golden. Light, effervescent, slightly dry. Fuzzy, like the horrible mineral waters Mother sometimes made Father take to aid his digestion. But not with the terrible metallic taste. For the brief moment she could taste anything at all, it was sweet- or no, maybe sour like lemons. No, not that, either- more like sparks from a fire.

(Erica) "Hello? Did you not get the memo? Vampires are hot! Besides, compared to most cities, we barely even have a vampire population. I heard Seattle has like, ten times as many because the sun barely shines up there. We just need to find a man who will pound all those negative thoughts right out of your brain with his big, fat cock!" (Karli) "Ugh, don't remind me I don't have one of those either!" I whined.

I’ll let you off your leash, but you have to show some manners. No humping, no pissing on anything man made, and keep the crotch greetings exclusive to your four-legged fury friends. Got it?” Swarley nods because I’ve made him part human over the past few months and I’m pretty sure I saw him roll his eyes at me too. Guess I’d better start getting used to sassiness and eye rolling … read that on a parenting blog too. Note to self. Find more positive bloggers that paint the picture of parenthood with rainbows, fairies, and pixie dust. “Sydney?” I turn. “Hey, Dane!” He bends down to let his dogs off their leashes. “Gosh, I didn’t think you’d be back. How was Paris?” Which part? The view of the ceiling from the couch or the drain from the top of the toilet? “Great!” Extremely sugarcoated … maybe teetering on an outright lie. “So how long are you staying?” He rests his hands on his hips. Dane is adorable. I’m sure grown men don’t like to be called adorable; hell, I didn’t like it when Lautner said it to me, but Dane is just that. Tall, dark, and admittedly handsome with a boyish grin that makes me want to take him home, bake him cookies, and pour him a tall glass of milk. “I’m not sure. Trevor and Elizabeth just moved to San Diego and I’m staying at their house until it sells or until I find something else.” He cocks his head to the side. “Yet, they left Swarley?” Turning my gaze to look for the wild pooch, I shake my head. “Their condo association doesn’t allow large pets. They’ve been looking for a new home for him, but for now I have him.” “You two have come a long way since the first day you showed up at my office.” Clasping my hands behind my back, I look down and kick at the dirt. “Yeah, you’re right. As of lately, I’ve considered taking him myself. But until I know where I’m going to end up, offering it would be a little premature if not irresponsible.” “Grad school with a dog. You’d have to find some place to live that allows pets.” My faces wrinkles as I peek up at him. “I’m not going to grad school, at least not for a while. Something’s kind of come up.” “Oh?” Dane’s hands shift from his hips to crossing over his chest as he widens his stance. I blow out a long breath, scrubbing my hands over my face. My fingers trace my eyebrows as I meet his eyes again. “I’m … pregnant.” Dane’s eye are going to pop out of his head and the dogs will be chasing them if he opens them any wider. “I’m sorr—or congrat—or—” I smile because his adorableness doubles when he gets all nervous and starts stuttering. “It’s congratulations now … ‘I’m sorry’ was last month.” He nods in slow motion. “So you came back for Lautner?” “No … well, yes, but that backfired on me. He’s … moved on.” “Moved on? Are you serious? From … you?” I shrug, bobbing my head up and down. “Well … he’s a fuc—a freaking idiot.” As much pain as this conversation brings me, I still manage to let a giggle escape with an accompanying smile. “You’re right. He is a fucafreaking idiot.” Dane grins. “Especially because he’s with Claire.” His eyes go wide again. “Dr. Brown?” I nod. “Dr. Fucafreaking Brown.” Dane mouths WOW! “Exactly.

Tinker Bell, meanwhile, was drifting with purpose up to the highest leafy branches of the jungle. Her light glowed warmly off the leaves below, the droplets seeping off their thick veins, the sweet sap running down the trunks of the trees. It made the whole clearing look... Well, like it was touched by fairies, Wendy thought with a smile. All her life she had looked for fairies in more mundane places, experiencing a rush of hope and warmth whenever a scene even palely imitated the one before here now. Candles at Christmas, fireflies in the park, flickering lamps in teahouses. The sparkling leaded glass windows of a sweets shop on winter afternoons when dusk came at four. A febrile, glowing crisscross of threads on a rotten log her cousin had once shown her out in the country: fox fire, magical mushrooms. And here it was, for real! Tinker Bell was performing what appeared to be a slow and majestic dance. First, she moved to specific points in the air around her, perhaps north, south, east, and west, twirling a little at each stop. Then she flew back to the center and made a strange bowing motion, keeping her tiny feet daintily together and putting her arms out gracefully like a swan. As she completed each movement, fairy dust fell from her wings in glittering, languorous trails, hanging in the air just long enough to form shapes. She started the dance over again, faster this time. And again even faster. Her trail of sparkles almost resolved into a picture, crisscrossed lines constantly flowing slowly down like drips of luminous paint. Wendy felt a bit like John, overwhelmed with a desire to try to reduce and explain and thereby translate the magic. But she also felt a lot like Michael, with an almost overwhelming urge to break free from her hiding place and see it up close, to feel the sparkles on her nose, to run a hand through the sigils not for the purpose of destruction but form a hapless, joyful desire to be part of it all.

I used to teach Internet business courses, but stopped pretty quickly because I realized that people seemed to think that when you put “Internet” in front of “business,” it magically changed business to something with fairies and pixie dust, and that you could therefore ignore sense while focusing on secret ninja tricks. I wanted to scream, “BUSINESS IS STILL BUSINESS NO MATTER WHERE YOU CONDUCT IT!

You’ll need an awful lot of pixie dust to move 2.5 mil in forty-eight hours, Better let Tinker Bell know you’ll need backup.

Where did you get your tat?” “Aaron’s shop. You want to get a tat?” he asked, grinning as if this was hilarious. “I have one,” I said, rolling the ball into the gutter. “It’s not finished though.” “How come?” “My brother interrupted the tattoo and I never had the money to get it done again.” “No, I meant how come you’re such a bad bowler? Is it genetic?” he asked. “Like do you come from a long line of people who can’t make a ball roll in a straight line?” “You’re hilarious.” “I try, Pixie Dust.

Do they know?” “Know what?” “About your car,” she whistled quietly between her teeth. “Not unless they’re magically tracking me by the pixie dust that spills out of my ass. It

You of all boys should know that Man is the Storytelling Animal, and that in stories are his identity, his meaning and his lifeblood. Do rats tell tales? Do porpoises have narrative purposes? Do elephants ele-phantasise? You know as well as I do that they do not. Man alone burns with books.’ ‘But still, the Fire of Life … it is just a fairy tale,’ insisted Dog the bear and Bear the dog, together. Nobodaddy drew himself up indignantly. ‘Do I look,’ he demanded, ‘like a fairy to you? Do I resemble, perhaps, an elf? Do gossamer wings sprout from my shoulders? Do you see even a trace of pixie dust? I tell you now that the Fire of Life is as real as I am, and that only that Unquenchable Blaze will do what you all wish done. It will turn bear into Man and dog into Dog-Man, and it will also be the End of Me. Luka! You little murderer! Your eyes light up at the very thought! How thrilling! I am amongst assassins! What are we waiting for, then? Are we starting now? Let’s be off! Tick, tock! There is no time to lose!’ At this point Luka’s feet began to feel as if somebody was gently tickling their soles. Then the silver sun rose above the horizon, and something quite unprecedented began to happen to the neighbourhood, the neighbourhood that wasn’t Luka’s real neighbourhood, or not quite. Why was the sun silver, for one thing? And why was everything too brightly coloured, too smelly, too noisy? The sweetmeats on the street vendor’s barrow at the corner looked like they might taste odd, too. The fact that Luka was able to look at the street vendor’s barrow at all was a part of the strange situation, because the barrow was always positioned at the crossroads, just out of sight of his house, and yet here it was, right in front of him, with those oddly coloured, oddly tasting sweetmeats all over it, and those oddly coloured, oddly buzzing flies buzzing oddly all around it. How was this possible? Luka wondered. After all, he hadn’t moved a step, and there was the street vendor asleep under the barrow, so the barrow obviously hadn’t moved either; and how did the crossroads arrive as well, um, that was to say, how had he arrived at the crossroads?

The magic peen is a hell of a drug.” I laugh. “The magic peen?” “You’re practically floating on air. Like he jizzed pixie dust all over you.” I giggle out a groan and cover my eyes with my hands. “Etta. Too much.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “And yet not nearly enough.

But since you’re still dreaming of creating Disney Magic, I’ll tell you a secret: you have to make your own Pixie Dust. You must decide every day that reality is not going to get in your way; instead you embrace it and use your knowledge of the system to your advantage. You look in the eyes of every happy child and mine the gold that lies there. You learn to endure the operational ironies and focus instead on meeting and exceeding guests’ expectations, because the joy in their faces makes it worth the extra effort. You take to heart the words and legacy of Walt and invest yourself in keeping them alive for the child in every adult.

Tagged by a whiny little vamp,” he said, gesturing. “Rache, take this sword and stick it in me. Just go and stick it in me. I’m a back-drafted, crumpled-winged, dust-caked, dew-assed excuse of a backup. Worthless as a pixy condom. Taken down by my own partner. Just tape my ass shut and let me fart out my mouth.

I'm not actually DUSTY. My wings have tiny scales on them, which I like to think of as PIXIE DUST.

Zara.” He sighs. The wind bellows outside. “How can I make you understand this? I need your mom. If I don’t get her, more boys will die.” “That’s ridiculous.” “No, it’s just how it is.” I think for a second. “If that’s true, then why did Ian try to turn me?” He loses his composure. His face shifts into something worried, something almost human. “Did he kiss you?” “Almost. Betty killed him first.” He almost smiles. He pulls his hand through his hair. “Betty is fierce.” “Is that why you stay away when she’s here?” “Not even a pixie wants to tangle with a tiger.” He blows on the ember in his hand. It turns to dust. “You seem like you could handle almost anything,” I say. “This?” He smirks. “Parlor tricks.

Ali gestured with her eyes for me to look right. I followed the gesture to Coach Bobby. “Don’t you dare fight him,” she said. “He challenged me,” I said. “The bigger man steps away.” “In the movies maybe. In places filled with pixie dust and Easter Bunnies and pretty fairies. But in real life, the man who steps away is considered a big-time wuss.

There are times when no amount of pixie, magic, or star dust, nor happy thoughts can fly you high enough to shake loose the thoughts weighing on your mind.

I’ve got the word of an eight-year-old girl, an old fairytale I used to know, and a shred of faith... It’s not pixie dust, but I’d like to think it’s enough.

What say you, Commander?” he asked Lindstrom. “Oh, why not?” Nils answered, throwing up a hand. “Taking directions from sentient pixie dust was the last open square on my bingo card of space weirdness.

Leera’s raven hair had a light curl to it and she had smoky eyeliner that somehow accented her sharp brows. Her freckles sparkled with what Bridget proudly called “pixie dust”. Leera twirled gracefully. “So … what do you think?” When Augum and Chaska couldn’t get a word out, Mr. Goss and Mr. Okeke promptly stood. “Marvelous—!” “Most charming—!” Both seemed to hint for Augum and Chaska to say something, anything. Chaska swallowed. “Very pretty, Bridget.” Bridget reddened. “Thank you.” Leera looked expectantly at Augum. “Nice, um, ribbon.” Leera gaped. “Yes, a very nice ribbon indeed,” Mr. Goss said, nodding along with Mr. Okeke. Augum wanted to punch himself in the face. Nice ribbon? Nice ribbon?

All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.” ​— ​J.M. BARRIE, PETER PAN

I don’t bet on horses. I beat their meds into pixie dust, a couple grams doled into baggies. DOA with no face to save, I fall asleep, taking over the kind of life I always wanted.

Sometimes all we need is a little pixie dust. "So we can live before we get too old.

At last, Tink realized, she did have a mission. One born of her own passion. It would involve magic--- fiery, perhaps more concentrated, more ripened than the standard fairy fare. Not dark, as such. But tinted, stained, perhaps. She'd have to find a way to persuade the elders that the moment required such measures. She found herself more than up to the task.

All at once the fairies burst from their corner, lit brighter than a galaxy. The elders darted straight to the captives. But the younger pixies, led by Tinker Bell, zipped and darted around the pirates, sprinkling enough pixie dust to spark. Enough pixie dust, that was, to burn. "We're on fire!" Smee shouted. "Run for the water!" "The boy will escape!" Hook snarled. "You'll all be staying right here!" The pirate crew wanted to obey their captain, of course--- but the fairies were relentless. And their dust rained down like acid. Tink found that the unease that came from always trying to contain her outsized feelings was greatly alleviated with this opportunity to expend some of that wild, raw emotion. It was thrilling. She threw her head back, laughing as the crew retreated. Then it was just Tink, Hook, and Peter. The Darlings and Lost Boys had been released by the elders. Peter was still strung up, bobbing in his restraints like a kite. Amid the chaos he looked at Tinker Bell with amusement. "Came back for us, did ya?" His eyes twinkled. I came back... for me.

All the world is made of faith, and trust and pixie dust.

The pixies are complaining that you’re doing their jobs.” “The pixies, sir?” He nodded and offered a sheepish shrug. “I should have mentioned it sooner. You don’t need to be quite so diligent with the dusting and cleaning.” “Because that’s the pixies’ job, sir?

Even a little bit of fame can mess with your head. It’s a cognitive disease, you know? Fame. It used to only be for royalty and we know what they’re like. I’m not much of a Freudian, but something about fame makes the ID and the Superego devour the Ego like an anacondas in a cage, right before they cannibalize each other. Fame warps your identity, metastasizes your anxieties and hollows you out like a jack-o-lantern. It’s sparkly pixy dust that burns whatever it touches like acid.

You’re a smart woman, and I’m a romantic man who believes in an arrow-shooting Cupid, Santeria love spells, and pixie dust of protection and enchantment.

Because I’d be damned if his dick wasn’t made of pixie dust, blood diamonds, that delicious Olive Garden unlimited salad, and childhood dreams or some shit.

No, I don’t want to live a fairy-tale life fashioned of pixie-dust and enchanted forests. I would much rather forge a life out of the dust and grime of this soiled existence, for to fashion a life out of materials such as these is truly magic.

When you don't know what is happening in your Life, Trust God. The Being who created the Majestic Mountains would know how to shatter the rocks that come your way. The Being who created the Unfathomable Oceans would know how to sooth the wounds of your Soul. The Being who created all the Life forms and blessed consciousness in the Animate and Inanimate things all around you, would know how to mould your intellect and emotions in the aura of Stillness and Passion. The Being who breathes Life in everything would know how to bring you back to life each time this World tries to deaden your spirit. The Being who makes certain that the Sun shows up every morning to light up the world would know how to pull you out from the Darkest of hollows. The Being who ensures the walk of the Moon every single night would now how to carve the path that leads you Home. The Being who paints a bed of stars weaving a magic path of Stardust would know how to sprinkle the dust of the pixies in your Life just when you need it. The Being who thrives on Love, who breathes in Love, who is the very Source of Love would know how to find you the Love that's always the sacred thread to your Soul. The Being who Knows you Better than You do, would know what to do with Your Life even before you start to wonder about it. The Being who is the Greatest Artist and Author has already painted your Soul and written the Story of your Life, so trust in Him, all while doing your bit knowing He knows it all, especially when you don't know what's happening in your Life.

Koch Agriculture first branched out into the beef business, and it did so in a way that gave it control from the ranch to the butcher’s counter. Koch bought cattle feedlots. Then it developed its own retail brand of beef called Spring Creek Ranch. Dean Watson oversaw a team that worked to develop a system of “identity preservation” that would allow the company to track each cow during its lifespan, allowing it over time to select which cattle had the best-tasting meat. Koch held blind taste tests of the beef it raised. Watson claimed to win nine out of ten times. Then Koch studied the grain and feed industries that supplied its feedlots. Watson worked with experts to study European farming methods because wheat farmers in Ukraine were far better at raising more grain on each acre of land than American farmers were. The Europeans had less acreage to work with, forcing them to be more efficient, and Koch learned how to replicate their methods. Koch bought a stake in a genetic engineering company to breed superyielding corn. Koch Agriculture extended into the milling and flour businesses as well. It experimented with building “micro” mills that would be nimbler than the giant mills operated by Archer Daniels Midland and Cargill. Koch worked with a start-up company that developed a “pixie dust” spray preservative that could be applied to pizza crusts, making crusts that did not need to be refrigerated. It experimented with making ethanol gasoline and corn oil. There were more abstract initiatives. Koch launched an effort to sell rain insurance to farmers who had no way to offset the risk of heavy rains. To do that, Koch hired a team of PhD statisticians to write formulas that correlated corn harvests with rain events, figuring out what a rain insurance policy should cost. At the same time, Koch’s commodity traders were buying contracts for corn and soybeans, learning more every day about those markets.

This was my first visit to Walt Disney’s Magical Money Maw, and I initially had a typically cynical Chicagoan’s reaction. This place was an amusement park posing as a Disney movie come to life, with college kids in big-headed cartoon-character costumes mingling like monsters among children whose reactions veered between disappointment and terror. Here, the creator (not God but the beaming mustached one on TV) served up turn-of-the-century childhood memories painted with a pastel brush, inviting visitors into a fanciful American past sprinkled with pixie dust to banish actual memories of an era awash in financial failures, railroad strikes, immigrant tenements, racist lynchings, and social protest, right and left.

I think about one of the oldest attractions in Fantasyland at Disneyland: Peter Pan’s Flight. It has been part of the park since opening day in the 1950s. Peter Pan, the boy who never grows up, shouts, “Come on, everybody! Here we go!” You hop on a pirate ship, Tinker Bell sprinkles pixie dust, and you fly off to Neverland, avoiding the snapping crocodiles below. That’s how I feel. Peter Pan, at the eleventh hour, is becoming a man. And here we go.

All the world is made of faith, and dust, and pixie dust

Relief and pride wash over me as the rest of our lot brings aboard the chests of sparkling pixie dust. Its alluring scent wafts into my nose, a sugary aroma of all things sweet and tempting, yet light as air itself. “It’s the pure stuff!” Luna scoops up a handful of the powdered crystals and takes a deep whiff, her body starting to float without the use of her wings. “Really pure!” Luna would know. Mined in the dark depths of the Kobold tunnels, there’s nothing like smoking a pipe of fresh dust as the rush and soothing calm takes over.

Relief and pride wash over me as the rest of our lot brings aboard the chests of sparkling pixie dust. Its alluring scent wafts into my nose, a sugary aroma of all things sweet and tempting, yet light as air itself. “It’s the pure stuff!” Luna scoops up a handful of the powdered crystals and takes a deep whiff, her body starting to float without the use of her wings. “Really pure!” Luna would know. Mined in the dark depths of the Kobold tunnels, there’s nothing like smoking a pipe of fresh dust as the rush and soothing calm takes over. Once the greatest source of trade, Faylan depends on it for fuel, medicines, incantations, and more.

No matter which faerie clan we’re sent to plunder—snatching Kobold tech, pillaging Dryad moon festivals, crashing Nymph weddings where the faerie folk are too high on pixie dust to notice—it makes me feel alive.