The boy wishes to dance but has no dancing shoes, he wishes to dance but has no garment too, he wishes to dance but has no lass, he wishes to dance, a sign of a man, almost.
In The Depressed Person, Wallace’s conundrum, are we listening to an afflicted person’s tortured inner life or are we watching the actual protagonist, depression, controlling her like a marionette?, leaves the stupefied reader without resolution, defiantly.
The boy wishes to dance but has no dancing shoes, he wishes to dance but has no garment too, he wishes to dance but has no lass, he wishes to dance, a sign of a man, almost.
The evening breeze caressed the trees, tenderly
The trembling trees embraced the breeze, tenderly
Then you and I came wandering by
And lost in a sigh were we
The shore was kissed by sea and mist, tenderly
I can't forget how two hearts met breathlessly
Your arms opened wide and closed me inside
You took my lips, you took my love so tenderly
The evening breeze erased the trees, tenderly
The trembling trees embraced the breeze, tenderly
Then you and I came wandering by
And lost in a sigh were we
Oh, the shores were kissed by the mist, tenderly
I can't forget how two hearts met, tenderly
Your arms opened wide
And closed me inside
You took my chops away from pops, tenderly
Oh tenderly
Tenderly
Oh, oh
I finished my last peanut butter and cracker and liked the knife, satisfied.
The orphan stayed all day inside the yurt watching the fire burn low, pleasantly.
The Judge was naked with a crown of thorns stuck in his bloodied eyes, monarchically.
Ceramic shards scattered across the floor surrounding her feet and she was scolded by the Geisha, vituperatively.
Costin Sârbu tried blending in but his depravity—his lust for life as he called—made him grind against the strangers on the dance floor, gingerly.
My anxious tutor sat tapping her pen and foot, impatiently. Waiting for me to finish what I'm sure she thought was an incredibly easy test.
It's D! she snapped, finally. All of the above!
I penciled in the last bubble. That's what I thought it was, I said, proudly (and meant it)!
In The Depressed Person, Wallace’s conundrum, are we listening to an afflicted person’s tortured inner life or are we watching the actual protagonist, depression, controlling her like a marionette?, leaves the stupefied reader without resolution, defiantly.