Like an indiscriminate drop cap,
Mr Honk sat within the margins
and ran deep into the paragraph,
for he had not been born to fit
into any of the respectable social roles—
nor was he ever meant to—
doomed to disappoint even if he tried,
yet he felt a smidgen of nostalgia
at discovering that he was not alone
in finding most novels to be
impossibly futile affairs.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 