Fairy tales, then, are not responsible for producing in children fear, or any of the shapes of fear; Fairy tales do not give the child the idea of the evil or the ugly; that is in the child already, because it is in the world already. Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What Fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the Fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon. Exactly what the FaIry tale does is this: it accustoms him for a series of clear pictures to the idea that these limitless terrors had a limit, that these shapeless enemies have enemies in the knights of God, that there is something in the universe more mystical than darkenss, and stronger Nthan strong fear. — GK CHESTERTON
TONIGHT THE MUSIC SEEMS SO LOUD I WISHED THAT WE COULD LOSE THIS CROWD. MAYBE WE'RE BETTER THIS WAY. WE HURT EACH OTHER WITH THE THINGS WE WANT TO SAY. WE COULD'VE BEEN SO GOOD TOGETHER. WE COULD'VE DANCED THIS DANCE FOREVER. BUT NOW WHO'S GONNA DANCE WITH ME? PLEASE, STAY...
Southwest Gothic weather vanes spinning wildly even though there's no wind sunsets bathing everything in saturated light before all the color disappears old homesteads leaning to one side everything covered in cobwebs walking in the desert alone but you're not alone someone on the crest is crawling with you waking up to the sound of a complete downpour but looking outside and it hasn't rained even a drop your walls have eyes and they've seen
Midwest Gothic abandon farms silos that are slowly turning back into the earth street lights that flicker as you pass them empty streets in the middle of the night, but you still hear footsteps behind you someone looking at you from a curtained window, then you blink and they’re gone storm sirens at 2 AM an old radio carackling on, even though no one touched it the endless fields know your fears
East Coast Gothic foggy piers something large and unknown washing up onto the shore the end of the beach disappearing into the storm shade of the forest, leaving patterned shadows and tricking your eyes overgrown tombstones old houses painted black, shuttered windows an outbuilding in the middle of the woods, the forest has moved inside you know someone lives there figures between the trees, whispering