Walking around my house one day, I fell in love with a wall.
A wall? You may ask.
Yes, my friends, a wall.
But surely—surely, surely!—it was a lovely wall, elegant and dainty, pretty and angelic?
Why yes, you have never seen such a lovely wall. I state with a smile.
Oh, well then...that's still quite bizarre. You may say.
Why yes it's bizarre, but when love is involved, what is not?
Touche! You reply in attempts to sound witty and I continue my story.
Walking around my house one day—a rather lovely day—I fell in love with a wall—a rather lovely wall. Its trimmings were of faded, glistening yellow, of a sort that seems to seep and about the corners and of floor and ceiling—some form of Campaign Gold they say; the rest was beige. It was most intriguing. It was a petit wall, though, and largely... what's the word...?
Plain? You insert.
No. I assert.
Stout. You incline.
No. I decline.
No, I continue, it was rather graceful or elegant, like a weightless leaf tangled on the autumn breezes; or like a ballet dancer in a fleet-footed arabesque; or like a pale moon in its polished relief; or like a lithe gazelle leaping through the lofty sky in a gymnatic toss of the hoofs; or...really it was most like some stately wall and these analogies fail me.
Quite so. You interject, seeming to know your stuff.
Quite so. I agree, seeming to seem agreeing.
At first I was shy, just looking at it from the corner of my eye. I sat down with an awkward motion, picking up some valuable documents, pretending to read them as I spied the wall betwixt the script.
Betwixt the script?
Betwixt the scrip.
Why not betwixt the lines?
The script was on the lines, so..never mind it.
Skipping ahead a bit—for all I did was eye the wall circumspectly for many hours with a few passive, almost tacit words—I plucked of the courage to speak intently.
"Ms. Wall," I asserted, "this lovely sun does well whet your bounteous beauty—not that it needed it of course."I chuckle a bit, but then I realize my mistake.
"It is Ms., right? Or Miss? You're not married?" Rats, so blunt—I need to be smoother.
"For, who would deny Marriage to such an elegantly arranged wall?" I continued.
There was no reply.
"Well"— awkward chuckle—"I'll see you later. Take care!"
Still no reply as I departed in a nervous shuffle, reddened by my failure.
Was she angry? Or sad? Upset?
No, she was quite...emotionless, like a wall you see.
I returned the next day with courage and a plan—along with a verse of Shakespear in my noggin.
"Miss wall, I have the perfect poem for you. My tongue is tied too tightly by the heartstrings of my quaking heart, so transvexed"—Is that even a word?—" it is by your enchanting elemental grace, that I cannot myself find the words to elucidate my emotions." Then, quite shortly after, I gave the swiftest reading of Shakespear's sonnet number eighteen as was ever heard.
"Well," I asked with a tremor, "do you love me?"
Did it work?
Well, she didn't say no.
I shall pass on the details, but needless to say, we were happy. She was of few words, but we sat together often in the quiet evenings of those blissful times in, tied together at our hearts. I had a feeling that we were meant for each other, and so I did all I could. I painted her and sang to her; we danced and shared those special moments man and women were made for.
Oh, I'm so happy for you!
Well, that's not the end of it.
Not the end?
No, you though we'd live happily ever after?
We lived happily for many moons, watching the seasons pass before our eyes.
Well, what happened?
I realized there was not much to a wall, simply fluff and grace, paint and pictures.
Oh, well I'm so sorry.
Don't worry about it, I fell in love with a phone recently—certainly says a lot more.