I have no commentary about the following, no questions, no critique. I just like these words about story and storytelling from novelist Laini Taylor:

Isn’t “story” a beautiful word? I think it likely that some day I will get it tattooed somewhere on my body. I like the idea of it on my wrist, like a bracelet. I’ve been thinking a lot about stories the past few days, not writing them, or reading them, which is where my mind usually goes when I think of stories, but telling them. Out loud. How magical! I come from a post-storytelling culture; my great-grandfather, as I understand it, was a storyteller, but he died when I was a toddler, and his stories — tall tales from a genuine cowboy — weren’t really handed down. It’s a shame.

I want campfires and ululating gypsies, guitar strummings and throat clearing and the jangle of a tambourine being tossed aside. A camel lazily listening from beyond the circle of the firelight as someone says, “Once upon a time,” or “Maybe there was and maybe there wasn’t,” or otherwise opens some gateway into the world of stories. I want to lean back on my elbows on my magic carpet — which maybe is hovering softly a few inches off the ground, to keep off the sand fleas — and listen. Better yet, I want to be able to tell stories.