“Use it or lose it”, she said, before writing “purple prose” or “too subjective”in the margins.
“You’ve got too much imagination”, he said. “Stick to the task in hand”.
“Would someone please teach Alan about metaphysical poetry”, he said, “he has never heard of it”! They all laughed.
And the signs and symbols in the margins kept on growing. But when Juliana came, July I think it was, her gardener cut, with his scythe, all the weeds that had grown up in the eraducation garden.
She sang, somewhere in the distance, and I could hear her. And her song was no lullaby of the soul, and I was no longer marginalised.

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