She woke up to morning streaming through her white linen curtains. She woke up to feeling loved beyond reason followed quickly by the inevitable darkness of feeling unloved, unlovable.

Dualities. Dualities were a constant of life, of love, a kind of dark magic that coated everything with difference, with sameness, with instability, with a kind of fluid hardness.

Sun was quickly replaced by cloud, magic by routines, by morning coffee and To Do Lists.

If I were Queen of the World, she thought, I would smash every mirror in existence so the only relection we would see would be the one in our lover’s eyes… if we had a lover.

The only reflection she saw was that of a pale face staring back at her from a mirror she longed to smash. And so she did and watched the red blood drip from her lacerated fingers mesmerised by its beauty.

French Doors in the French Quarter

French Doors in the French Quarter

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