My first letter to my imaginary would-be girlfriend -- I christened her Marjaneh from Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. I swear this is the only plagiarized chunk in my entire scroll:
It's not a relationship -- it's a powwow with her around an unimpressive, my first attempt at a clumsy bonfire -- It's drizzling but it's unsteadyly -- I couldn't help but wonder if her temperament is mercurial like this present erratic weather -- There's mock but undisguised, confrontal indignation in her talismanic eyes for me -- She never looks at me directly -- only for a brief, fleeting while -- while I'm looking at something else -- Like am nonseriously flipping pages of The Founts of Sinhala.
It;s -- Her hands her dainty . . . . like brittle porcelain -- fingernails painted in bright orange kaleidoscope-like -- Some funky vogue nail paint art -- I
She stares at the volatile-ish bonfire blankly and smiles sadly -- as if as halfheartedly trying to figure out the meaningless existence of it -- particularly at oddity of it here at this place of our rendezvous -- If I could call it that -- in the first place -- -- I feel so dreadful -- Did I do something absurd -- all of a sudden I become aware of my Lilliputian-ism. She senses my guilt -- There's something Shamanic between us -- But we never talk about it --
She's like that ancient occult book: The I Ching / Classic of Changes -- Blah-blah-blah . . . .
To be continued . . . .
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