There will be no trip to Mexico ever. There will be no swimming on forever in the Riviera, or drinking cheap champagne and fig seeds from a coconut shell in the sunset pink and crushing.
Just textbooks, and an essay on a Pope. Or perhaps, A. Pope as in Alexander and the Rape of the Lock.
I wish I could live in Belinda's world, where the trivial has become important, and the most important things have become trivial. I want airy spirits to surround me dressed in gauzy little dresses and dewy sparkling little wings.
Instead, I bought a red notebook today, to be festive for the heart holiday.
My room is cold, and I just figured out why not an hour ago. My window has been propped open for the day with a pack of playing cards. Now I think I'm falling ill.
How did that woman with the crystal ball know that cards would be my downfall? I may have caught consumption!
This is no way for me to die. I'm not attracted to velvet robes and weakly coughing into embroidered kerchiefs for months and months until it finally kills me off.
How about I just avoid this whole 'death' notion altogether and just live forever?
Only if I get to keep my mind.