All the fresh air leaves me with a headache and my once urbane friends turn country bumpkins squanders my patience with their melodrama. Not enough is said of too much wine and awful company, or has it?
La Pointe du Rossignol by Théo Van Rysselberghe
It is also in the country where my understanding of heart is reduced to that of an infant and here in this ungodly hour I’m no more than ill-logic or is that ill-will and hard feelings. Some of it due to the bliss that eludes one friend, the happy beginning that another believes he has found and I’m left to fret for they are in the same relationship. My friend Bunny thinks I worry too much and that the two silly creatures will be happily married inside a year. I almost believe her or rather I pray she is wrong and still a weak pathetic part of me hopes for both their sakes she is right.