At my best, I am pale and impassive as a dune.
Tonight I perch grotesquely, laughing gargoyle
over the action, painted and pinned
watching my palms, the room, all of the odd intersections.
I am an attic, locked and forgotten.
I blend easily into the wallpaper,
even at my worstrattling cameralike, knocking
my cheeks. I start spitting feathers when I speak;
instead, I stare loudly....
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How in the name of the Devil's socks did you manage to bend your feeble neurons around the single greatest name on the entire GODDAMN site. I am a bona fide, mad lover of nymphs, or "nymphets", as a writer that I recommend you at least try to read, once described them. I hereby claim that it is my birthright to be called "Quilty". Now I'm off to Elphinstone. Put down that shoe!