Panel 1: Rose and future Rose are sitting on Rose's bed.
Future Rose: Listen...you're right. You are trapped. That doesn't mean you can't do anything.
Rose: But--
Panel 2:
Future Rose: No, really. It's like...you know sonnets?
Rose: Uh...sure?
Panel 3:
Future Rose:
Fourteen lines in iambic pentameter with a strict rhyme scheme.
Seemingly very little freedom. But within those restrictions, the
possibilities are endless.
Panel 4:
Future Rose: Your life is a sonnet.
Rose: I'd rather it be a limerick.
Future Rose: That works too.
Alt-Text:
Personally, I think my life is more of a sestina, or possibly a villanelle.
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