|Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins1. My sin, my soul.|
Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock2. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly3 at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style4.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs5, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns6.
|1aka Fire Crotch. This writer is a|
ginger aka a red head.
2Lo wears one sock like Mario
3Dolly, sheep, cloned in
4Possible reference to gangsta
5Misspelled. Actually meant to
6Thhe tangle is actually a crown
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