No need to wipe your spectacles upon your lapel, what you are currently reading is of the utmost veracity. I’m the captain of the ship upon which Charles Darwin observed so many forms of fascinating life, unique creatures upon which he sometimes took violently sick but those are tales for another day. I recently clapped my eyes upon a site started by my former charge himself. Hazzah! ‘Tis the time of wonders: Star Trek reenactments against blue-screens, rat’s brains flying planes and Charles Darwin – gentleman-blogger. 

    For my part I have been writing a short-short story everyday from a different point of view in order to rejoin this whiplash-quick world, I’ve been trying to get into the shoes, skin and mindsets of my contemporaries. Soon I’ll be ready to step out my front door. It has been such a long time. My beard is like a chain holding me down. Soon, I will seek out its end, find what it’s wrapped around and I will cut myself free!! 

   For the time being, I do hope you enjoy today’s short-short story which is about a starling...

 

Birdy, Birdy What Doest Thou Look Upon?

 

To Mary Shrewsberry, 

 

    I crave your pardon for not having written ere this. I took ill a fortnight ago and found that even my favorite quill that is carved at the top in the shape of your likeness (the time in which you raised your cute nose to sneeze in the field of daffodils ) even that beacon of you was not enough to move me to letter writing. Besides, William Wordsworth – who temporarily lodges with me – snores every night to the tune of La Marseille. Whether or not his heart still remains in Paris I know for an imperious fact that his left testicle was lost in some of the revolutionary fighting which he bore witness to. And I complain about illness and petty things while this great poet doesn’t even let a solitary testes hold him back. (Well he occasions never to pee at public urinals. Perhaps this is why.) I’ve been desiring to write to you of all the sublime things I’ve learned from William. How to compose verse in heroic couplets, how to enter the soul of a starling and how to get an advance on a collection of poems that aren’t even yours. Well this is an amusing ruse: you call upon a store and act pompous and great and shout “Where is my advance? I have yet to receive my advance!!” At this point you should grab a lesser manuscript which is almost out of stock and wave it in the air. The clerk – who’ll generally know nothing of the higher financial dealings of the store – will forthwith produce a pound or two in order to appease your wrath. William and I did this in London last weekend and collected enough for pints for ourselves and the starling which we had been observing. Ere this we had been studying for poetic purposes a starling through binoculars: William observed and gave the bird his hilarious Scottish brogue. He spoke as if he were the bird watching people. William thou art a gas, I exclaimed. We took a break from this and got money through the previously mentioned mode and then with armloads of beers we went out in search of the starling. Once we caught it – William impersonated a Cottonwood Tree in order to lure it towards us – it took to the beer as if it were seed.  I now have a new and goodly roommate who doesn’t snore. He does however wake me in the morning with his hung over twitterings. 

 

Your affectionate friend,

John Keats 

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