Mr Honk always wondered what was expected of him.
Something, for sure; otherwise, what would be the point?
Especially since, despite his name, he was a rather quiet fella,
without much of an ambition of his own or a seminal act
of cowardice—nothing beyond low tea with the provost
Barbariccia or collecting the whole Everyman’s Library
and actually reading it, and all because of a hunch
that there may be maybe in the sure.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 