serpent sniffles.
Oh speak to me, lady lady, of ice and cold and snowdrifts in the soup. For you this is too much excitement, and I am scorching. It is summer here, Alice Alice, and on top of all that heat, baking bread dough as it sits on the wood block without benifit of oven, I have a fever.
A blistering, boling, four-fifty-one fever that maketh my nine-chambered heart pump sulfric acid and has poor Dear Christian and the poor sleepy dormouse bustling about all day and night with cool washcloths and dreaming of the night mail when my snores do whistle. Hatta and Hare make tea in my nostrils, and I do not rage and roar but I cough, but I wheeze.
But I am so fucking hopped up on day-quil and ink quill, and porcupine pincushion quill love, that I cannot sleep for bleating and burning.
There is no turning, to do so would require energy-- which makes still more heat. The skin beneath my scales is like the Heart Queen's temper, it is like a Frank Herbert novel, without any Spice. Perhaps it is that a volcano has moved in next door (I will have words with this un-neighborly vesuvius ere long) Or perhaps, during a brief but tempestous visit-or-affair-what-have-you last week, involving a particular serpent-in-exile who came to tell me tales of his sulferous and sweet garden...
and that is why I have failed to visit you in the stillness of winter, dearheart. I can only sweat beneath my scales in this black, patchouli scented room in my sunglasses and shorts, dreaming of Eden and thee...
~frumiously,
Jabbers.
