Everett Ogden's desk was becoming a fruitful place, at last. He had the madness of the realm and the influence of his friends to thank for that. The sonnets were coming along and there were nine different outlines of two different five act plays. These took up space in two plain leatherbound books, both in brown.
With the sonnets he had composed on the boat and countless poems in another tome that carried him through his adolesence, Everett had begun to amass quite the prolific pile of work, despite that almost every night was a war with his muse, battling for the words that she would not readily relinquish.
One awful morning, he paused in a shameful walk home to purchase a small black book that he would add to the pile of sketches. This one would carry his villanelles, a new form for the man who lately required a few more ways to express the many emotions that scarred his gentle heart.
With the sonnets he had composed on the boat and countless poems in another tome that carried him through his adolesence, Everett had begun to amass quite the prolific pile of work, despite that almost every night was a war with his muse, battling for the words that she would not readily relinquish.
One awful morning, he paused in a shameful walk home to purchase a small black book that he would add to the pile of sketches. This one would carry his villanelles, a new form for the man who lately required a few more ways to express the many emotions that scarred his gentle heart.