She asks why I like her.
Might as well ask
Why I breathe.
Maybe tomorrow I won’t
Breathe or like her
Anymore.
Maybe tomorrow the tides
Will stop.
Maybe tomorrow will bring
No more rainbows.
Maybe tomorrow
She will stop
Asking useless questions.

Yes, I know,” Isadora said, and then read her poem, leaning forward so Carmelita Spats would not overhear:

“I would rather eat a bowl of vampire bats
than spend an hour with Carmelita Spats.”

The Baudelaires giggled and then covered their mouths so nobody would know they were laughing at Carmelita.
“That was great,” Klaus said. “I like the part about the bowl of bats.

I think I feel it
The nimble, fleeting emotion
That novels and authors desperately
Try to convey in ink and heart blood
Whose shadow festers in the loins
Of teenagers and their insatiability
The hidden thing none of us can see
Yet we all disagree what it looks like
If only it were love… simple, infinite love
But this was more, this was bloodshot madness.

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