She never felt her life was the real thing. It was a rehearsal for something, a place in between.
She never knew why she attacked English tourists, or why people seemed to follow her, mysteriously, hesitantly, as actors learning their lines.
She ended up in an asylum outside Paris, wondering why there was no fire.
.finis.
Brevity is the width of soul.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
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1 comment:
Poor Joan!
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