And could not know the joy, on the eve of Quinning....
All that matters and ever did.
(even if of course it will not translate: "mine missives, read like poet
tree")
To get to the eve of Quinn,
not quite so whippernap...
And know that all that natters is no matter whom
zat your gate...
or door.
Time..... to let those little bubbles of sherbet candyfloss and populist poignancy
(did she even hear my Missive? it say's "cannot open", here, the technofukkery
of it all)
coarse through the blud and be antidote to all, simply that one can still feel them
even better.
But the order of things
The sequence
Is that mine terms, which are everything we knew two decades ago.
All must be:
to be
continued
