For some reason, my brain is mixing concepts together, and now I want to read a poem that's a love-letter to autumn written as if autumn were a sexy lady.
More of a stab at the foofier pastoral poets than actual fact, there, I'm afraid. It's a nice concept, I might have a bash at it when I've finished gluing bits of plot together in the backroom of this book. (it is going a lot better than the other one was).
Well, who is better-placed to see how ridiculous someone is than the person who has to live with them all the time! (Honestly, though, will "no, other places are not America" ever be finished?).
ignore the self-righteous american undergrads! (other americans certainly do, and by "other americans" i mean "me". :D ) write love letters to sexy ladies anyway!
I ended up writing a poem that had nothing to do with sexy ladies or autumn and a great deal to do with people being shot, whoops. BUT I ALSO GOT SOME PLOTTING DONE.
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And OMG, that poem is gorgeous.
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