I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. The helicopter lifted from her hand and hovered in the air. We are nuns. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. ‘So that’s true, is it?’ ‘Certainly it is true,’ Melusine said, opening her eyes wide.
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