I am an imp. I couldn’t help myself. I really couldn’t. The temptation was too great, and the glee too delicious. I swear, this will become my addiction, and it will be the end of me if I’m not careful. I dropped poems again. At the library and up and down Himmarshee Street. In various hidey-holes and in trees. Around and about well-trafficked places. Dotting un-passed-by landmarks. In the bushes. All on boxes, in boxes, about boxes. Some very tiny origami boxes. All sneaky-like. All brash and in the open.
Pandora would be proud, save for one small nagging detail: she didn’t open a box. It was a jar. All these years, we have labored under a mistranslation. But I don’t think anyone will mind. Now the question is, knowing Pandora’s tale, who would be curious enough to open such gifts? Who will be bold enough to see if the box is really empty after all? Go ahead. See for yourself.
A night well-spent, if I do say so myself.
So now the question is, when to do it again? Or better yet, who wants to join me?