Last week the muse showed up -- without warning -- at my door in full-on party mode, complete with a 16-piece jazz band and costumes (feathers, frills), culminating in a dinner for eleven Saturday night, in the aftermath of which she declared herself frazzled to her last thread, and made a French exit.
(Funny, but I'm visualizing her as Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey with a purple barge-of-a-hat run aground on her head.)
I may attempt to lure her back this evening.
We'll see.
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