A crowd.

First attempt: handshake for skill.

Second attempt: pat on the head for industry and effort.

Third attempt: cautious retreat of one who sniffs madness in his own kind.

Quite the third piece done in triplicate this past month. My happy groove has wound itself into a yawning trench. Dotted with the ghosts of bloodless pens who signal each other in code and keep travelling the same sad arc of a reindeer's horn. They think there's a formula to be found, but the Queen's cold math doesn't yield much.

Bloody right.

currently on a loop:

link

"How long I have stayed!"

Never expect consolation from the nodding snow drop. Or take a turn with the curtseying hyacinth. The narcissus is subject to flattery and the tiger-lily is the great prevaricator. Though their petals may be bright, the daisies have long ago fallen to rot. The shining ranunculus will blind your eyes.

Grab the stalk and scar the hand and the rose will lead you to Lapland.

Parts

Scrap mettle.

Won't take no.

Third attempt at corsetting Andersen's arctic into an appealing package. Unfortunately, Lapland has proved to be a mess of bulges--all hips and desiccated breasts. Still more pitiable is my conviction that there exists out there some correct formula.

Lady Liberty.

Glancing-eyed, banner weilding. Feet in the corn, head in the clouds.

Gid-yup.

I've put them through their courses over the last few weeks, but The Snow Queen was the ultimate proving ground. Don't know why I didn't begin with her--she's such an exacting ruler.

Nosing its way into the lead over a cast of stout Staedtler pigment liners--THE FOUNTAIN PEN.

Rut.

Taking time to get--
re-souled
re-soled
re-sold
re-soldered
re-soldiered