It was a dark and stormy night, and Edgar Gaunt had been standing on the doorstep, rain pelting down the back of his jacket, for seven and a half minutes.

Because this man, with his too-obvious trench coat and scruffy beard and disheveled hair — this man who looks like a hipster Bogart — has walked her dreams every night since she turned nineteen.

“The rat had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no consideration, no decency, no milk of rodent kindness, no compunctions, no higher feeling, no friendliness, no anything […] Everybody knew it.” - EB White

In all the millennia he’s loved her, this is his favorite.

lyrical found poem #1