Penelope Cholmondely raised her azure eyes from the crabbed scenario. She meandered among the congeries of her memoirs. There was the Kinetic Algernon, a choleric artificer of icons and triptychs, who wanted to write a trilogy. For years she had stifled her risibilities with dour moods. His asthma caused him to sough like the zephyrs among the tamarack.
Friday, December 25, 2009
TS Elliot Writes Books For Me
I could not be wearier Life could not be drearier If I lived in Siberia....r.
Your poem brought me to teariers
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