I would call it a modern day Romeo and Juliet, but of course it isn't. It's a Romeo and Juliet for all time.
The delicious archetypery, woven and weft so effortlessly it yields just the slyest of winks while sprinting past hubris, leaving only dust and a sense of wondering, what koan hath been left in the pattern of its settling through the morning air?
I have to confess, the ambition plain on its cover, blah blah yet another love story, how could I expect to be sated? And I'm not, indeed anything but: I need more.
But how could there be more? If every novella was super no one would be, and it can only be downhill from here. I grit my teeth and wipe my tears and find solace in the knowing I have been so recently wrong, and wish I will be again, soon.
