[Why between heaven and earth would that occur to her, is the first thought he has but keeps to himself from an abundance of diplomacy. The rest is harder to pick through, leaves him staring down the device with a pensive frown. Poetry never inspires anything except, in this case, a familiar sliver of dread- pointless, stupid, shamefully superstitious. Even the most levelheaded person by day will feel unease hearing an owl laugh at night, but this is more likely to be a mynah, and this mimicry is apparently not even meant to shiver crickets, much less friends to lunatics. If he's to take her at face value, as much as he can, anyway; bleakness aside, these poetry offerings could mean anything or nothing.]
No need. Whatever I did wasn't for thanks.
Would I like the rest? Two stanzas of winter in four is too many.
no subject
No need. Whatever I did wasn't for thanks.
Would I like the rest? Two stanzas of winter in four is too many.