Icicles by Cynthia. Meter from me. Sybil.

“I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost.“ - Vladimir Nabokov, The Vane Sisters