“All you need to catch a fairy is an old birdhouse and some shiny stuff. You know, like glass and glitter, or pieces of colored plastic or metal things that’ll sparkle when the sun hits them.You can paint the birdhouse, but it doesn’t really matter what color. It’s not like how hummingbirds like red things, fairies aren’t that picky.So you take your birdhouse and shiny stuff and just hang it somewhere. High but not too high. Trees are good but fairies are everywhere so trees aren’t like, a requirement.You don’t even need to put anything over the birdhouse entrance. Once they get in they won’t be able to figure out how to get out.Fairies are kind of stupid.”

“They are enthusiasts, devotees. Addicts. Something about the circus stirs their souls, and they ache for it when it is absent. They seek each other out, these people of such specific like mind. They tell of how they found the circus, how those first few steps were like magic. Like stepping into a fairy tale under a curtain of stars… When they depart, they shake hands and embrace like old friends, even if they have only just met, and as they go their separate ways they feel less alone than they had before.”

“Like stepping into a fairy tale under a curtain of stars.”

“You can say anything with a Post-It.I’m not entirely sure why that is.Maybe the friendliness of the squares makes it easier. A square is nicely compact and less intimidating than a full page.And they come in cheerful colors. Non-white paper is kind of inherently festive.Or maybe paper that sticks feels more important than paper that can blow away.(Though you can move them, if you need to put them somewhere else.)They might not be as lasting as words carved in stone, but Post-It thoughts will stay.For awhile, at least.”

“The past stays on you the way powdered sugar stays on your fingers. Some people can get rid of it but it’s still there, the events and things that pushed you to where you are now.”

“You send me all these roses.Every time I think the last bouquet has arrived, finally, another turns up.I’m running out of vases.I didn’t know roses came in so many colors.You say they’re the perfect symbols of love because they have thorns and love is pain.I say life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.And you don’t get it.You say you love me, but you don’t speak my language.You don’t even realize I’m an orchid girl.”

“Is it not that bad to be trapped somewhere, then? Depending on where you're trapped?""I suppose it depends on how much you like the place you're trapped in," Widget says."And how much you like whoever you're stuck there with," Poppet adds, kicking his black boot with her white one.”