I haven't written because it isn't fitting that every Spring I wait for gr
Today, whilst finishing my lunch, I finished another of my author's books. It was a very experimental piece about a young man who died and the friends left who mourned him. His name was Percival. Death is the enemy said Bernard, who spoke for Louis and Jinny and Rhoda and Susan and Neville and even Percival. And I suppose Mrs. Woolf's worlds are littered with the wreckage of young men who dared put on nobility like a cloak, without understanding the illness of the fit for all whose shoulders are not made of alabaster.
Funny, in that way. Funny that breathing makes us living war crimes when we take a tumble from our horse and split our pumpkins on the nearest boulder.
Funny that it makes the boys watching us try again harder.