He drifted about with his head full of myths, always at least half lost in some otherland of story. Demons and wingsmiths, seraphim and spirits, he loved it all. He believed in magic, like a child, and in ghosts, like a peasant. His nose was broken by a falling volume of fairy tales on his fist day on the job, and that they said, told you everything you needed to know about Lazlo Strange: head in the clouds, world of his own, fairy tales and fancy.
-Laini Taylor
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