"I can juggle, not well... I can balance a broom on my chin. I can do very simple carny tricks, a little sleight of hand with cards and coins."

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Sleep in my arms. Like a baby bird. Like a broom among brooms... in a broom closet. Like a tiny parrot. Like a whistle. Like a little song. A song sung by a forest... within a forest... a thousand years ago.

— Milan Kundera