Entry 2

Dear diary,

It's not everyday we get to dream of something so meaningless, so lacking in substance. However, ideas do come every so often in a nebulous form of a dream and most of my stories, to be honest, are usually inspired by the little plays that I conjure up in la-la land. Here's one for instance:

I call this a "Pot of Stew."

Uncle James wiped the pot of stew with a cloth,
It was overflowing with its content,
While the rest of his kin stared in wonderment,
And hunger.

His sister snatched the pot he was cleaning,
A greedy glint in her eyes,
Daring him to look her way,
"Hey, what was that for?" he asked,
"For not listening to my story," she said.

Off she goes weaving her tale,
Of how she wanted to see a play,
But none would,
But one,
Her cousin sister said, "O' but I do."

The rest of the folk said naught,
But shook their heads instead,
In unison they said, "You're just being nice."

Before they could start again,
About something so pointless,
I scooped a little stew
with my wooden spoon,
And into Dear Cousin's mouth it went,
"Hush now," I looked at her, "you're too long-winded."

Now everyone's attention was on me,
And how I love to be basked in it,
I finally said, "So..."
And looked at papa, "When will we be going to Wisteria Forest then?"

To conclude,
That's how a Nimblehead passes his time,
By laying out meaningless questions,
And answers with matching asperity,
...in a nonsensical conundrum.

The end

Till next time,
Abigail.