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Hi, you can call me Cinderella

January 16, 2016

Clouds of dust puff up each time I smack the fabric of my leggings against my calves; they don’t lessen; I am bemused. My facial cotton returns with shades of grey after trailing across my face; I have used so many this week. I give up washing my hair on evenings because the next day will be the same. This week, I am a ball of dust.

I was also introduced to an Englishman this week- he struggled to finish the cold soba I’d made for lunch. He is a physics philosophist who identifies as a ‘non-realist’ when I asked him what he thought of Christianity. What he described sounds like new agism at a fancy dress party.

I type all these while cat-napping on the train; Montpon-Menestrol is getting cold and the fields were white with frost today. Frosty grass is crunchy under one’s feet. I wonder what the weather st emillon (sp?) will be like; I understand we’re going there today.

Earlier this week I racked up a phone bill of 103 euros on faux information. That ensued in a tragically comic series of calls in which I failed to navigate frenchy. Eloise’s papa eventually came to my rescue; he reminds me of my own. I love my papa very much.

I liked the phone company’s waiting song, though:

all of your softest dreams
all your whispered schemes
all your incredible plans
will stay with me.ee.eee.eeee

all of your ideas
and all of your secret fears
all your courageous tears
will stay with me.ee.eee.eeeee

 

 

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