Such a pilgrimage were sweet, ho.

GO and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

-John Donne

This is what I need, to understand. And to finally realise just how sweet Neil Gaiman is. Bright, bright, hope. I so forgive you for the fifty cats. (:

I want to read, and to understand obscure literary references. To not simply swoon over pretty phrases, but to know how they come together and assimilate into something entirely new. I have no idea how I am supposed to do that, but I must at least try. So the March holidays are reserved for ink, paper, Microsoft Word and me. Blah blah Maguire yes we are deluded and we make of the hollow world a fuller, prettier place than it is, because secretly none of us mean anything. Not really. Blah blah. You are absolutely right, but I absolutely ignore you. (: One day I'll really understand you and see how you get from that to homo love and bright, hopeful closure.

I want answers. I suppose I'll have to deny everything before I can finally believe in anything. Because Gregory Maguire blah blah blah blah blah. I want to fight my way around you, I want answers, and I suppose I will find them, however I have to.