beatrice,
in this exact moment i imagine you holding this sketchbook with both of your hands, so tight your knuckles are slowly turning white, as you used to do every time you were too interested in a book to pay attention to the world around you.
do you remember the day after christmas at the train station when you hit your head in a lamp because you were in your little world reading that stupid book about shrimps? i do remember. i was in a bad mood and you were mad at me.
i can imagine your eyebrows furrow because you just realized it is me who’s writing this and now you just sighed.
and you’re not holding this piece of nothing as tight as before.
you’re now holding this as if it was the daily newspaper full of crappy articles and sad and tragic news. you’re uncomfortable in your seat and even the dead and ugly plant in front of you is more interesting than this.
but I don’t blame you. no one likes bad memories.
and unfortunately, i’m your bad memory.