She is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
She has more hair than she needs; In the sun 'tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of coloured beads, Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
A former academic enthusiast, witchwife spends most of her time trying to piece back together her passion for writing.
This journal follows her life as she pretends to be working towards an ultimate life goal of some sort that is constantly being undecided and redecided and then perhaps dropped all together in favor of another brilliant pipe dream.
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