Chapter Fifty-Eight
At this moment, Michel, you’ll probably think: why does that woman record all the things that have happened to her lately?
The answer is simple: if this must be a love letter, let it be one wherein love is in juxtaposition with suffering, turmoil, and chaos.
Such is life.
I use this cliché with a reason. I feel I have had enough of suffering. Let me be in The Mole’s shoes for a while, let me write in écriture automatique, but let the outcome not be a misty parable, but a warm and tender love story, a lie as elegant as the chants of the old troubadours.
There was a time when love was simple. My mother once told me she realized she was in love with my father when she unconsciously put her hand on his shoulder while he was reading a book on our terrace. It seemed just
