The Shakespeare sonnet she liked best began,
“Rise, resty muse.” Her own muse slept till noon,
wore purple socks. Then toast in bed, fig jam,
crumbs everywhere.
Espresso, macaroons together (dipped) cheer her, but favorite Illy demitasse cannot be found. And where's
her Shakespeare Sonnets? Willy-nilly, happens on Molière. In deep despair.
Then Mamet. Dammit!
—Christie & Muse
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