Yet, mad am I not—and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A curious one. But I guess all questions are curious.”
“A curious one. But I guess all questions are curious.”
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” S
Femi wrote her a poem.
(She can remember the poem, but she cannot remember his last name.)
I dare you to find a flaw
in her beauty;
or to bring forth a woman
who can stand beside
her without wilting.
(She can remember the poem, but she cannot remember his last name.)
I dare you to find a flaw
in her beauty;
or to bring forth a woman
who can stand beside
her without wilting.
But then, is that so hard to believe? Who is to say that an object does not come with its own agenda? Or that the collective agenda of its previous owners does not direct its purpose still?
Where is the merit in telling the truth? He doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to believe anything that comes out of my mouth. He just wants her.
“It’s because she is beautiful, you know. That’s all it is. They don’t really care about the rest of it. She gets a pass at life.”