Hang on, stitching together your page...
“It started at the mall of Marisand,
an after-school shopping expedition.”
I wonder…maybe I could hold her hand?
My father sent me here, we’re on a mission.
She asked me here, I came at her request.
For what, exactly, does your father yearn?
I’m not quite sure which section is the best.
I’ll take her hand, and then to me she’ll turn,
and like a dream among those aisles of clutter…
She strode ahead—I hurried up behind—
when came a voice like oily rancid butter.
Dear Aeronwy! What can I help you find?