Flipping through the first few pages, the only ones with anything on them at all, to find a hint of to whom it belonged my curiousity consumed me.

In rounded, careful letters were some of the most painfully honest excavations from a heart, I've ever "accidentally" read in my life.

Perhaps it's bias, knowing the author, but in reading barely a handful of words for each day recorded, my senses rippled in interchangeable, empathetic sorrow, joy, and anticipation; the breathtaking honesty of a child in his/her private correspondence to their imaginative, shadowy faerie world captured my heart and soul.

I want to be as fearless of honesty as a nine-year-old.