#bittorn

𝑡ℎ𝑒    𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑟𝑒    𝑤𝑎𝑠    𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡  ,                     and outside the city of paris was alive  ----    the cobbled streets bustling with hurried faces    /    ladies strolling with their lace parasols  ;    visions of wealth    &    beauty ingrained upon the city of love    &    light  .    and though christine lived within it  ,    and longed for it  ,    she was unsure if she was a part of it                    (    poor orphan girl  ,    𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑟    𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ    𝑑𝑖𝑟𝑡𝑦    𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑡  ,    𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟    𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ    𝑎    𝑔ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑡    𝑎𝑠    ℎ𝑒𝑟    𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟  !    perhaps she was mad  ,    a haunted house    /    a decaying cathedral    )                    how she and the other girls marveled at the jeweled throats of aristocrats that wandered into these halls  ----    made bets with one another on how much such fine fabrics would cost  !                    it was a world adjacent to hers  ,    as though she had taken a step to the left  ,    and existed alone just outside of it

  ❛  monsieur lefebvre  ,    why are you here so late  ?    the last performance was hours ago  .  .  .  ❜  

she holds her tongue  ,    bites down on her words hurriedly  ----    had she any room to question him  ?    she herself wandered the halls long after she should  ,    𝑑𝑎𝑧𝑧𝑙𝑒𝑑    𝑎𝑠    𝑡ℎ𝑒    𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑠    𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑤    𝑑𝑖𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑟  ,    stewing in the faded chatter  ----    the stirred energy that all those faces had left behind  .                    as though she could feel them still  ,    as if  .  .  .    if she stood long enough there  ,    she could understand them better