I’ve always had a weakness for beautiful packaging and the good life.
A few weeks ago, it felt like magpies were stalking me and a church curse was hot on my heels (yes, I believe in curses). I felt like I had no choice but to check myself into a psychiatric hospital—though I suppose it’s not too late for that yet. I packed a single suitcase with clothes and undergarments; a torrential downpour started, even though the sky had been completely clear just moments before. I bought a small bottle of cognac, found an apartment through an ad, and moved here that day, feeling like a wounded deer. I am slowly regaining my strength and my mental balance. My dad told me not to call him anymore. Our city is in flames and without electricity, but there is nothing I can do about it. His choice was to keep the house. My choice is to live my own life without guilt.
