A stirring in Gibbon Forest

Dear Reader, how are you? Of course, I do not really care; I ask only because you might ask how I am. I am doing fantastically! For whatever reason, I find myself a tall, slender packet of energy today. I spent the morning drinking tea in Gibbon Forest with a young blonde girl I met in the city. I commented on her exquisite hound's tooth overcoat while in line at the butcher's shop, and she asked me my background. I replied, "omnivore," and she laughed sweetly. Our banter went well so I invited her to the estate and we had a little picnic in the forest. Ah, it has been so long since I have had human company amongst the lesser apes, and I must say it was glorious. It eventually came time to say goodbye. I wanted to kiss her, or at least embrace, but just at that moment of parting, a gibbon swooped down and started picking at the poor lass's curls. I blame her not for fleeing as other gibbons began dropping to the earth like fallen angels. It is a shame it ended thusly. I feel a strong desire to twine my arms around her now, and I feel the gibbons marred an otherwise immaculate date. Damn them. I hope she is capable of forgiving animals--for they do not understand love. (although one particular gibbon will swoop no more).

I shall call her on the telephone when the muses give me the words to speak, for at the moment I find myself speechless. It is difficult to articulate the more tender feelings, and I find it laughable when I see retarded oafs composing love poems and songs to their lovers. I want to shake them by the throat and say, "Foolish rhymester! It is the job of the muse to compose. You are but a vessel." But oh no, they go on and on about love, dove, heart, smart, etc., etc. It makes me want to spew.

I remember my first night with Phoebe. The muse dictated to me the first quatrain of what later became an Elizabethan sonnet. I could never invent such beautiful lines. I am eager for tonight's slumber to see if the muse dictates a new one to me. It's how I will know if my love be true. But already I feel a strange mixture of gibbons, nymphs, and beauty stirring within.

Ah! I am distracted. My calendar is clear. I shall pass the afternoon with the faerie and dreams. I have already had Harold--the gibbon who swooped--beheaded and disposed of. He was often an instigator. So I instigated his end.