the bianca castafiore in me greets the milanese nightingale in you.
take a moment, sing her aria, belt it out, we can never quite get enough of it, sacré bordel!
Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir,
Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir,
Est-ce toi, Marguerite, est-ce toi?
Réponds-moi, réponds-moi,
Réponds, réponds, réponds vite!
Non! Non! ce n'est plus toi!
Non...non, ce n'est plus ton visage;
C'est la fille d'un roi;
Ce n'est plus toi...
it's been a long stretch of mounting stupidity in a parabolic zone that seems to require my spinning nucleic presence to metabolize the exact quantity of stabilizing dumb [SD] necessary to preserve the nature of things. when reincarnated as a worm, i hope to play the warmer, mealier role of preserving the things of nature.
all of which is to bring you, from northside hearsepital's most rockin' and a-reelin' bed of music and magic -- 5C-507 -- this newly discovered, swiped from the archives [what to do at 3 am when even the swingingest nurses are dragging their high heels?] photo of saint dobby as he led his friend sammy, my greatest cat love through the last stages of life. dobby is, and is told daily, that he is 90 % angel, 10% house elf, and with witchy math part rin tin tin, a very tough cat, and a sweet pea. since buddy's arrival on scene, he has bouts of needing to be the resident Bad Boy, so long as he can drop out of the role after five minutes, tops.
anyway, here they are. sammy never wanted to be alone in his dying, and never was.
sammy, of all the male anythings I have ever kissed, was the best kisser of them all.
not to overdo things on the originality front, but dobby is given frequent reminders that he's a very good boy.
© 2015 L. Ryan
