“Quis es tu”, quoth my quibbling heart. It may seem quizzacious to ask but it is the quinteessence of any quodlibet. A quotannal festival takes place on the quindene. I stand near a quaggy quarry. I carry my quaigh of tea made with qat green leaves. I quench my thirst as if it were a quaffary of quass. I watch the qajaq pass as the once settled waters quake beneath. Silence breaks, quins quoiting on a quay. A quadragenarian shouts with offerings of a quarter-pound of quahog for less than a qid. My querist nature sprung with a quaere into there questionable quality; as if to queer the pitch.
Forgive my quibbling, I may be described as a querulous person but I remain quiescent. I wish to quell a qualm quagmire, a quandary of quintessential idealism; quixotic in nature. A quite quizzical notion given my quondam – a quirky description of my former self as a quean. It’s been over a quinquennium, qua I tighten each knot of my quipu, I quickstep quietly around these questions in a quest that offers no quick gains nor quip words of quotability.
– Jubilee Nunnallee 9/19/2018
