{ ... }

۞

  Maeve was struggling to count.  You see, she had known Psi-Qolog from her very first steps.  She fell over on the crêche floor.  

  “Take a memo, Miss Correspondence!” exclaimèd Psi-Qolog, hurriedly, as if time was of the essence.  

  Quickly, Miss Correspondence grabbèd her notebook, full of dots-and-lines.  

  “Group dynamics!” went Psi-Qolog.  

  {studiously}  

  °6 … 6 … 6 …° countèd Maeve.  

  {recursively}  

  Psi-Qolog lookèd on in anguish.  

  °Seven, seven, seven …° determinèd Psi-Qolog.  

  “S-e-v-e-n,” utterèd Maeve.  

  “Well, well.  My greatest success today!” sung Psi-Qolog.  

  Miss Correspondence had recordèd the dots-and-lines, the movements of the children in the crêche, there were eight of them including Maeve.  

  “Time, date, location, situation,” instructèd Psi-Qolog.  

  Miss Correspondence was adept at group dynamics and quantitative data recording but Psi-Qolog thought it was music they were both composing, capturing static the rhythm of the children moving and playing.  Maeve was decomposing with an eraser.  Later.  Time passèd over.  

  All the mum's had taken their little ones away, except for the one orphan, little miss Maeve Llwywllyn.  

  “Push or pull?” askèd Maeve, concerning the door, her sortie.  

  Psi-Qolog was bedazzlèd and frazzlèd.  

  {his hairs like so}  

۝