This isn't that kind of poem.
In the wee hours of the morning, in the Kashtta Tower, Suzie is building something. It's taking up most of a conference table, and serves no discernible purpose. It has pendulums and lights which flicker on and off through scavenged bits of coloured glass, held in place by curling wire. It has ornate hour and minute hands from an antique clock, each one moving at a different pace, on completely different sections of the device. Scattered around are notebook pages with scraps of verse in Suzie's handwriting, and here and there one might find a completed poem.
At the moment, Suzie's staring at the device with an expression of mild dismay. "No, no, that bit's all wrong. Not what I wanted at all." She goes to disconnect a section, muttering about timing and imagery.
Any onlookers might be forgiven for believing she's finally cracked. Again.
It's not that she's insane, precisely. It's that she spent three hours arguing poetry in a bar with a pair of muses, with predictable results.
Around mid-afternoon, Kristy is hiding in a mall restroom, trying very hard not to cry. Stupid boys. Stupid, stupid boys. She should've banished them. Or conjured ferrets into their pants. Or something. Stupid boys.
She hates everyone right now.
And at some time approaching midnight, the Doctor (no, the other one) is hanging upside down from a traffic signal, while something that looks like a black plastic sheet tries to eat him.
He's singing to it.
At the moment, Suzie's staring at the device with an expression of mild dismay. "No, no, that bit's all wrong. Not what I wanted at all." She goes to disconnect a section, muttering about timing and imagery.
Any onlookers might be forgiven for believing she's finally cracked. Again.
It's not that she's insane, precisely. It's that she spent three hours arguing poetry in a bar with a pair of muses, with predictable results.
Around mid-afternoon, Kristy is hiding in a mall restroom, trying very hard not to cry. Stupid boys. Stupid, stupid boys. She should've banished them. Or conjured ferrets into their pants. Or something. Stupid boys.
She hates everyone right now.
And at some time approaching midnight, the Doctor (no, the other one) is hanging upside down from a traffic signal, while something that looks like a black plastic sheet tries to eat him.
He's singing to it.