In Loving Memory
I miss her desperately
She drank words from books with a thirst for technique, for prose, for romance, to escape banality
She was chock full of ambition and each day began with a theme and ended with a satisfying finality. The story would be a linear narrative of events; she was destined to live among the greats, wasn't she?
She should've expected that there might be no denouement, that a senseless abruptness could snuff it all out with no warning - the greats were always doing that anyway. She was no narrator. Only an omniscient could've told you that she woke up one Thursday and there it was, in fine print:
The girl would die a kind of death today
