Tired and sleepy, adorned with dorky jacket and her mother's old scarf, Our Hero mumbles her way from Calvino (who had entirely too many sex scenes) to Hawthorne (whose briar-thick allegory chokes the imagination) and wonders whether there is any leftover espresso in the pot.
Our Hero loves denim jackets and wool scarves. Our Hero is sleepy and wants to curl up in bed with a favorite novel and a cup of tea to dispel the disturbing images of Calvino and Hawthorne with their separate demons.
Truth be told, I'm feeling a bit stifled. I should probably go to sleep and think about it tomorrow. Think Scarlett O'Hara.
Our Hero slowly looks over the room, pausing at small objects as if she could move them away telekinetically. Realizing her feet will not comply with telekinesis, Our Hero sighs and wonders again if there is any leftover coffee. She is trying to sort through memories and rationalize some of them while justifying others; it is a very odd feeling and an unwelcome one when the night feels so old.
I want to go back to Dublin. Never mind; there is now fresh espresso.