I do not remember when my mother stopped reading me bedtime stories. I suppose it was when I learned to read them myself. One day I was looking at life upside-down and backwards, listening to words about a Prince being spat into my ear. The next day I could see the world correctly and told myself about the Rose he was in love with. One day, an Engine could. The next day, I could. I guess we could relate to each other. If I ever felt full, complete and whole, it was a time when I was young.
I wish I better remembered being a wild thing.