my sweet little honey child,

by Rachel Lynch in


"The conjurer had poured milk, molasses, foaming champagne into a young lady's new white purse; and lo, the purse was intact. Thus I had delicately constructed my ignoble, ardent, sinful dream; and still Lolita was safe -- and I was safe. What I had madly possessed was not she, but my own creation, another fanciful Lolita- perhaps, more real than Lolita; overlapping, encasing her; floating between me and her, and having no will, no consciousness -- indeed, no life of her own."