Not the history or its theoretical reminiscences, but an actual living part, like a plot or a theme; a central metaphor, a humming bird. A lyric girl.
She was carrying herself as books had told her. She lived in ink.
She could only interpret relationships following Baudelaire's will. She tried to be mysterious and part of the Generation X. She longed for being a savage detective. She was Illuminations and Figures III. She was sick with the Montano malady.
And she had been told before. You are too analytical, my dear. Too cold, too ungrammatical... to much of a linear love. Generation Y.
You make your own speech and reality, those people don't exist. Stop trying to see through the fog, there is only fog out there. And houses, and cars, and street lights and meaningless sex. An awful amount of reflectance beasts. Your heart pumping gas.
She made boys fall in love with her only to write about it. She was that paperful.
Paperless.
She yearned to read love stories and feel identified, mutter love sentences as a remembered speech. She was that powerful.
And she started reading herself, like a short story. Like a fast food menu. She was the millennium burger, the combo #2.
Powerless.
She was an entry at the yellow pages and a Facebook page. And all the graphic sounds, and all the kings men, couldn't put her back together again.
She fell out of love after a good 150 pages and 2 days.
A
