There goes another day. A day wasted, nothing goes to plan, as it ever has. It's been ages since I've had the need to put up something. A few letter are stuffed in a box awaiting their receiver, to never be delivered. Others are stuck inside my head, which will never see paper. I was born a few hundred years too late. I'd love to live in a time where words would still mean something. A world without all this hypocrisy. In hightime of romance. Somewhere I'd like to be a writer, but I don't know what to do. This time of day, the nightingale abides by the law of king Noble.
And I'll write a story about how I want it to...
"I adore Miss Shepherd, she is a girl, in a spencer, with a round face and curly flaxen hair. I cannot look upon my book, for I must look upon Miss Shepherd. In the service I mentally insert Miss Shepherd's name; I put her in among the Royal Family. At home, in my own room, I am sometimes moved to cry out her name, in a transport of love. For some time I am doubtful of Miss Shepherd's feelings, but, at length, fate being propitious, we meet at the dancing-school. I have Miss Sheperd for my partner. I touch her glove, and feel a thrill go up the right arm of my jacket, and come out at my hair. I say nothing to tender her, but we understand eachother. Miss Shepherd and myself live but to be united. Why do I secretly give Miss Shepherd twelve Brazil nuts for a present, I wonder. They are but expressive of affection, they are hard to crack, even in room doors, and they are oily when cracked; yet I feel that they are appropriate to Miss Shepherd. Soft, seedy biscuits, also, I bestow upon Miss Shepherd, and oranges innumerable. Once, I kiss Miss Shepherd in the cloack room. Ecstacy! What are my agony and indignation next day, when I hear a flying rumour that the Misses Nettingall have stood Miss Shepherd in the stocks for turning in her toes! Miss Shepherd, being the one pervading theme and vision of my life, how do I ever come to break with her? I can't conceive. And yet a coolness grows between Miss Shepherd and myself. Whispers reach me of Miss Shepherd having avowed a preference for Jones-A boy of no merit whatever! The gulf between me and Miss Shepherd widens. At least, one day I meet the Nettingalls' establishment out walking. Miss Shepherd makes a face as she goes by and laughs to her companion. All is over. The devotion of my life-It seems a life, 't is all the same- is at an end; Miss Shepherd comes out of the morning service, and the Royal Family know of her no more."
