The window’s open. It’s cold. I like it cold. Shivers and goose pimples can be really entertaining, if you wish to consider them so. I just happen to do. I like open windows. One can hear the metallic bustling of trams, whispers bouncing off the concrete walls, animals trying to communicate…but the trams…
Oh, how I love their song. That metallic rolling and rumbling.

I enjoy the intricate models smoke makes when rising up into the air. I enjoy holding the cigarette between my fingers. I pull the smoke into my lungs as if it were the essence of life itself. Oh, how I hate it. It’s not making me choke any more; but it still feels horrid against my throat. How very unsatisfying. I can’t breathe in the cold air. But I like it.
I exhale. I stop for a moment. I think about life. For a moment I stop breathing. Ash falls. I’m surrounded by it. I’m far too inebriated and I’ve sunk far to deep in my thoughts to really care about it. But it’s still there.

The wine bottle is down. It slowly poured into the carpet and unto the hardwood floor. Dry, white wine. I like the red, but it just doesn’t suit me. Neither do slim cigarettes, long dresses or exquisite music. I like to hear the city. I like the cheap wine and the rough tobacco.
Just one glass left; and not much of the cigarette. Oh, what else is there to do? Dreaded sunrise, keep away. I still have things to do. I don’t know what they are, though.

Slowly spinning on the rough carpet, I lay my eyes upon a book. Oh, poor piece of literature, if you only knew what an unworthy soul is about to grab hold of you. I stretch out my arm. I touch the edge of the shelf. The wood is sleek; sleek unlike anything else. I can feel Huxley spinning in his grave. I grab it.
Page, after page, after page. The wine on the floor going up though the old paper. Those words covered in smoke. The tram. Rumble, rumble, rumble. I shouldn’t be reading this. Not in this state.

A ray of sun. Goodbye, spilled wine; goodbye, smoke and ash; goodbye to you, oh brave new world. I have another life to live.

This isn’t about me. It’s just a made-up story. Life from the perspective of a metaphysical drunken girl.

Încă n-am scris de Serampore. Trebuie să scriu.