[she thinks of the lady midnight as cruel, selfish, but is playground solicitude not always selfish; the more ardent the more selfish. something almost adjacent to the ivy—greenery of envy creeps up on romy rose’s most tranquil of gardens: it was unconquerable to mutter, she was tiptoeing near jealousy of how slumber overtook brigita’s senses and whims so deftly. the ghost of her digits will linger over to take the shape of bunny—kin’s very own, leaned over in with her pseudoskin belied by a smile unfeigned, taking unoccupied peaks of stacks of work.] let’s go. [the vernal promise, all its dulce and affection, felled by juvenile springtime promise.] .. my sixth sense went off screaming that you were getting sleepier. i’m happy now..
