the dejection of lies

 

     dearest world,

I sound like an old ancient lady marveled in lace with a feather at hand et a heart full of woeful begone stories to tell.

Better yet, i am young and bloddy woeful. To make matters worst, gravely so,

 I am more wealthier than all of Long Island’s finest, but fear not i am full of misery and heart bent tales.I am fed up with this forage of madness To do or be damned.To love but sin greatly.To have but to be inadequate and alone.To feel yet feel shoveled within a world full of shame et melancholic sips of le pin.               Alone i am.    Again,

sitting in father’s study reading the most insanely crude yet most perspicacious of teachers,

of all times, grant it you all lived.  I read our  fellow genius,

Marcus Aurelius.God save me, for the queen is now dead.

 

               Envied in Valentino, et nestled in the Brookvilles,        Sophie Becks