O Rose, thou art sick
The invisible work
That flies in the night
In the howling storm
Has found out thy bed
of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Fully many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air
Thomas Gray
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um so I guess we can't be friends because I haven't read Wuthering Heights and I really hate poetry. I had McKay translate. I liked what he said. Perhaps we could have a talk about it this weekend. Anyway I have to say that I have many favorite memories about you, the one that sticks out right now was when I invented a new word - Harry Potter style - and you loved it so much you texted someone about it. I am glad we are friends. I love you.
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