No sign of Shakespeare, despite several promising séances. I was, however, struck by the presumption of the flowers in the pits around me. They seemed to look down on my intellect, more so even than the peonies in the immediate vicinity. This can't have been a result of their taste, for obvious reasons.
The reputation of Shakespeare precedes itself, and I found this garden did the same.
I was at one point accosted by an overenthusiastic chipmunk who was wearing spectacles in spirit if not in physical form, and he demanded I pass on the following message:
I would like to warn you, in the name of The Bard, that you are trespassing on that Which we don’t take too seriously, and If you were to cross our intent, the flat Of earth would turn inside out, and swallow Ourselves with it. So maybe better to Stay in for a spell of Lear and Macbeth And Cleopatra, or ponder who'd do The dishes when genius fails to rise up And who bought the wine that fills their gold cup?
The chipmunk was not available for...
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