What we take from the spirit world is only a reflection of what lies inside ourselves.

I've always believed the lies we use to make our fictions reveal the truth with far more honesty than any history or herstory or life story.

I've always been aware of the otherworld, of spirits that exist in that twilight place that lies in the corner of our eyes, of fairie and stranger things still that we spy only when we're not really paying attention to them, whispers and flickering shadows, here one moment, gone the instant we turn our heads for a closer look. But I couldn't always find them. And when I did, for a long time I thought they were only this excess of imagination that I carry around inside me, that somehow it was leaking out of me into the world.

Lies were like having a pregnant rabbit. One day you had one, but before you knew it, there were rabbits all over the place.