4
Little Night Music (Mozart)
Elan (thoughts)
September 14, early morning hours
This evening—I should say yesterday since it’s already one am—I ordered a dinner in my cabin. Violet and Nico joined me. My colleague came with Arturo, his bad boy ventriloquist puppet who says vulgar things that everybody loves and his diamanté loafers that everyone would remember way after Arturo is retired in a closet. Violet was wearing a simple black dress. No jewels, no smiles; only the light of her blond hair. She has short hair because she fears that someday one strand will get lost on a lover’s shoulder. She’d have to cut the strand off and her soul would bleed. Poor Violet ! She’s a wild flower beaten by the wind, the ocean sun, history. She’s also crushed under the unscrupulous feet of the passer
