The story of the uprising
I’m not quite myself this morning darling to tell you one of my stories; I’m tired and my hair is messy without the chic. I had a difficult time late last night trying to ease the villagers from their protesting, making sure nobody got hurt and struggling to convince each person in my house that I was listening to them — but let me start from the beginning.
I was in my drawing room, lounging on a chaise, surrounded by moulding and blue velvet curtains left open to allow for the light of the moon. It is the only time during the immeasurable time of my day when the world goes quiet — sure, there was a skeletal being playing the piano softly for me and the old woman with deep set wrinkles on her face came over to bring me a pot of tea but nothing else really, the paintings and hardbacks had all hushed.
I was not feeling cold, despite wearing a light white dress, but I did have to keep my bare feet under my dress. I was looking at the chandelier above me, shimmering, as the light of the moon hit the countless crystals found on it, when I started hearing people rambling. The voices were persistent and I was sure people were coming towards my house before I got up to look outside the window.
Standing there, I realised that the villagers were walking towards my house, holding pitchforks and fire torches and throwing curses and my name in the same sentences…
Listen darling, I’m tired, let me go eat some gelato, I’ll tell you the rest of the story tomorrow.
Story credits: Tim Walker- Vogue for the image.