The pitiful whistlers of the world have all gone to bed. Manet to his mistress, the others to their snores. I am left alone to complain to the moon of my solitude, my alienation from my newly-viewed muse.
“O for a muse of fire,” says the Bard of the Brits. But I would have my mistress made of ice cream and licorice drops. Creamy, cool to the touch, endlessly lickable, and with two good scoops on view. And then, at times, dark and chewy, with a maudlin aftertaste. But Mme. Sabatier, she is more than I can imagine–perfection! That remote whiteness of a mountain mist, a profile to define the very clouds. Why hadn’t that mopey Manet painted her in profile? No doubt, it defeated him; his hungry gesturing with his camel’s-hair stick would have defiled her infinite finesse.
O muse of ice, I’ll pull from your pure swansdown the arrow of my ichorous quill. Female cupid, enchantress! Were ever the rules and roles of courtship so reversed, that a dog such as I should have this dream?
To her I would cry out from the exquisite pain in my heart: The suffering of the unwitting wanton is as real as the starvling martyr’s!
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