j.m. barrie is my favourite.

Of course they lived at 14, and until Wendy came her mother was the chief one.  She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth.  Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover were is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner.

The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her, and they all ran to her house to propose to her except Mr. darling, who took a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her.  He got all of her, except the innermost box and the kiss.  He never knew about the box, and in time he gave up trying for the kiss.  Wendy thought Napoleon could have got it, but I can picture him trying, and then going off in a passion, slamming the door.

...

(its all good... don't think i'm omitting sections that aren't worth reading... never)

... No nursery could possibly have been conducted more correctly, and Mr. Darling knew it, yet he sometimes wondered uneasily whether the neighbors talked.

He had his position in the city to consider.

Nana also troubled him in another wa.  he had sometimes a feeling that she did ot admire him,  "I know she admires you tremendously, George," Mrs. Darling woudl assure him, and then she would sign to the children to be specially nice to father.  Lovely dances followed in which the only other servant, Liza was sometimes allowed to join.  Such a midget she looked in her long skirt and maid's cap, though she had sworn, when engaged, that she would never see ten again.  The gaiety of those romps! And gayest of all was Mrs. Darling, who would pirouette so wildly that all you could see of her was the kiss, and then if you had dashed at her you might have got it.  There never was a simpler happier family until the coming of Peter Pan.

Mrs. Darling first heard of Peter when she was tidying up her children's minds.  It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for next morning, repacking into their proper places the many articles that have wandered during the day.  If you could keep awake (but of course you can't)  you would see your own mother doing this, and you would find it very interesting to wath her.  It is quite like tidying up drawers.  You would see her on her knees, I expect, lingering humorously over some of your contents, wondering where on earth you had picked this thing up, making discoveries sweet and not so sweet, pressing this to her cheek as if it were nice as a kitten, and hurriedly stowing that out of sight.  When you wake in the morning, the naughtinesses and evil passions with which you went to bed have been folded up small and placed at the bottom of your mind; and on the top, beautifully aired, are spread out your prettier thoughts, ready for you to put on.

I don't know whether you have ever seen a map of a person's mind.  Doctors sometimes draw maps of other parts of you, and your own map can become intensely interesting, but catch them trying to draw a map of a child's mind, which is not only confused, but keeps going round all the time.  There are zigzag lines on it, just like your temperature on a card, and these are probably roads in the island; for the Neverland is always more or less an island, with astonishing splashes of color here and there, and coral reefs and rakish-looking craft in the offing, and savages and lonely lairs, and gnomes who are mostly tailors, and caves through which a river runs, and princes with six elder brothers, and a hut fast going to decay, and one very small old lady with a hooked nose.  It would be an easy map if that were all ; but there is also first day at school, religion, fathers, the round pond, needlework, murders, hangings, verbs that take the dative, chocolate pudding day,  getting into braces,  say ninety-nine, threepence for pulling out your tooth yourself, and so on; and either these are part of the island or they are another map showing through, and it is all rather confusing, especially as nothing will stand still.

Of course the Neverlands vary a good deal.  John's, for instance, had a lagoon with flamingoes flying over it at which John was shooting,  while Michael, who was very small, had a flamingo with lagoons flying over it.  John lived in a boat turned upside down on the sands,  Michael in a wigwam,  Wendy in a house of leaves deftly sewn together.  john had no friends,  Michael had friends at night,  Wendy had a pet wolf forsaken by its parents; but on the whole the Neverlands have a family resemblance, and if they stood still in a row you could say of them that they have each other's nose, and so forth.  On these magic shores children at play are for ever beaching their coracles.  we too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.

Of all the delectable islands the Neverland is the snuggest and most compact; not large and sprawly, you know, with tedious distances between one adventure and another, but nicely crammed.  When you play at it by day with the chairs and table-cloth, it is not in the least alarming but in the two minutes before you go to sleep it becomes very nearly real.  that is why there are night-lights.

Occasionally in her travels though her children's minds Mrs. Darling found things she  ould not understand, and of these quite the most perplexing was the word Peter.  She knew of hno Peter, and yet he was here and there in John and Michael's minds, while Wendy's began to be scrawled all over with him.  the name stood out in bolder letters than any of the other words, and as Mrs. Darling gazed she felt that it had an oddly cocky appearance.

.......

All were looking so safe and cosy that she smiled at her fears now and sat down tranquilly by the fire to sew. 

It was something for Michael, who on his birthday was getting into shirts (i love this little sentence.... i wish that this was something i could read about in our novels today... ).  the fire was warm, however, and the nursery dimly lit by three night-lights, and presently the sewing lay on Mrs. Darling's lap.  Then her head nodded oh, so gracefully.  She was asleep.  Look at the four of them, Wendy and Michael over there, John here, and Mrs. Darling by the fire.  there should have been a fourth nightlight.

While she slept she had a dream.  She dreamt that the Neverland had come too near and that a strange boy had broken through from it.  He did not alarm her, for she thought she had seen him before in the faces of many women who have no children.  Perhaps he is to be found in the faces of some mothers also.  But in her dream he had rent the film that obscures the Neverland, and she saw Wendy and John and Michael peeping through the gap.

i just woke up.

i'm sitting here enjoying the tenderness of this story... the childlikeness... 

and my ears perk as i hear some boys from my building talking about how one of them walked in on my friend maddie in the shower.

"she has HUGE tits."

...

i am crying... in my lobby... 

silently and alone...

but.... after letting it go for a couple seconds i had to say something...

so i chewed them out.

as soon as i opened my mouth three of the boys scattered.  

one of them JUST came up to me to thank me.

he patted me on the shoulder and said "atta girl"

what about him?

i sorta gave him a hard time... why didn't he do anything?

i just can't believe it.

You could tell they were embarrassed as they walked away...

well brian's here... and I need someone to talk to.