Mercy's eyes are blue
I think that this summer, I'd like to be a mysterious, willowy, silent figure that haunts the shelves of public libraries. I shall come back every day, always appearing to be in a thorough search for something very particular and imperative, growing more hollow-eyed every day that I do not find it. If any library staff asks me if they can be of any help, however, I shall reply in a lost sort of voice, "What? Oh . . . no, nothing. Just . . . nothing."
And I shall scribble heart-rending confessions on perfume-soaked, tear-dropletted stationery, and leave them in pages of obscure medical journals. Or children's books, whose audience will surely be intrigued and enlightened by the wanton subject matter.
And I shall scribble heart-rending confessions on perfume-soaked, tear-dropletted stationery, and leave them in pages of obscure medical journals. Or children's books, whose audience will surely be intrigued and enlightened by the wanton subject matter.