To my dearest Adelaide,
God give this man shrewdness, for his words are too verbose. He has acervated and admarginated any long form of words he could find in every page of any memorandum book he can aquire. His brown is always caperated in thought, ready to deblaterate at any given moment. He possesses a misconceived notion that such vocabulary will be the same as decapulating the elightened philosophy of the old great ones to his own intellectual capabilities. But it’s not a statistic that he can comprehend that by his actions he only defloccates and degfabrates his prefrontal cortex while forfeiting the attentiveness of the assemblage he mustered for himself. He cleaves to his discountenance when I strive to elucidate that he attempt to excude. It is my bete noire that I manuduct him to the erudition he’s convinced he owns, even if i’m obliged to quaeritated myself but he surmises me to be a sycophantically wife. How am I to make do with this? I Avidly bide my own time until I aquire your letter with a better insight of my predicament.
Fare thee better than as I fare,
Colette Maddock
YOU ARE READING
Written for the Event
PoetryIn my process of writing and illustrating comic books, sometimes I get the urge to write out and share a beautiful scene that I just feel with in my heart and this will be a collection of these things. Nothing will be planned to correlate tho I can'...
