Oh, most arrogant wretch.
Fie. Fie. Fie. Why do I deign to write? What conceit have I, that to put my counterfeit words next to royal scribes before and near me? Whose language I share, but in comparative use, I despair?
To spend evening past perched near the world’s stage, soul undone by the Bard’s poetry in the two hours’ traffic rage. I set my trespass on our shared language as I prate on.
Soft, soft. Anon I will publish this hopeless screed, awaiting the black emptiness, the complete loneliness of whispering into a void. And yet, still, I type. Perchance to dream.
Mark. I type for thee, Loyal Reader. Or if I would fain prove true, I, indeed, write for me.
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