Propounded imbroglio, sub rosa.

2005-08-23 - 8:37 p.m. Dear Reader, I'm sorry I've not written you in so long. Residing, as I do, at my current address, in the middle of a bog, a bog of MOURNFULNESS (yes, you heard me); it's hard to get to the post office. The library, however. Or as the French say, "la bibliothèque". Here's hoping this brief but desperate missive finds you in good health, happy and untroubled by diaphanous fears about, and longings for la bibliothèque des enfants. And I mean the one that exists in my head, not the one that exists to the left. Please don't let your friends make fun of me. Anyway, supposing I actually had the nerve to flip through the madly criss-cross-referenced index there, what on earth would I find? Bunnies with dandelions in their ears? A little girl eating a biscuit (or "cookie") made of sand? Something about a futile treasure hunt for real jewels in the wilds of England? Scratchy illustrations in inky silhouette? Gentle Reader, I'll be honest with you: I'm sad. Sad and panicked. None of us can get back there, and even if we could touch it, it would only turn brown at the edges. As always I remain yours, with love, Rainy McMaster previous - next LIVEJOURNAL FLICKR MYSPACE