#pfhfhhh

Ilse’ life has never exactly prompted a circumstance in which she could put much worth into possessions, although she maintains an admiration for most things extravagant and grandiose, it is only due to the wonder of it all, and most of her prize possessions are trivial belongings she keeps on her person. The contents of her pockets mostly consist of––

º The poem ‘To the Memory of Mr. Oldham’ seemingly torn out of an old bound book, folded once too many times to say the least. The text is beginning to fade from the page, but the discernible stanzas read as, 

“So long, too little and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own; For sure our souls were near ally’d; and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine. One common note on either lyre did strike––––What could advancing age have added more? It might (what nature never gives the young)”

ºA coarse cloth, perhaps a napkin at one point, wrapped neatly around a rough cut of ruby and a few other various stones and seeds.

º Some loose twine and a book of matches to accompany a half smoked clove cigarette

º A pastel postcard of some tropical beach adorned in palm trees and carelessly lodged surf boards adorning a Hepburn-esc sun bather with a too wide grin and the words ‘Wish You Were (Still) Here’ painted in the sky above her.

ºA gold necklace, potentially the only thing of real value, with a kinked chain and a half-heart pendant she was given by her grandmother. Ilse can’t recall the full passage with the conjoined piece, but the broken phrase adorning the half she possesses reads,