A fact of the suitcase

Beatrice gets to negotiate immense heaps of snow at every intersection 8 months every year. Every car, pedestrian, and carriage spit course language all around trying to do the same thing throughout the day. This time the whole country has reached a true integration of consensus. They hate where they live. Did they know, when the last winter ended, that there was to be another winter the year after, just like the one that had just ended? Or did they block the memory of the last winter and decided that surely winters never actually happen in this part of the world? They are all insane. Beatrice has spent the last year deciding where she would move. Staying was not an option.

She had a fact of the suitcase to hold on to.

If and when (if OR when) princessly wealth, however modest, is entrusted to me, I will be a good custodian and increase it with use.

Once you have given up, everything follows with dead certainty.

I want to expect the most magical thing to happen and to relieve me from my debts, my lack of university degrees, my guilt in front of the ones who love me, my insufficient affection for available men, my life path that doesn’t want to follow any rational maps, my miserable talent, my inevitable decay and aging. I do not wish to be in control any longer, Mother.

In everything I quickly see the opposite, the contradiction, the attack.

Nothing can be altered, except by a change of heart. I can change a heart.

I feel envy for some, and pity for the ones I don’t envy.

I want everything too badly. I take blind leaps into the dark systematically. Everything has to happen as soon as I want it.

He had stolen something and he knew it. The world was a nerve-jangling carnival where grotesqueries might swing out on springs and cackle at you.