“Jone, see this Jone, your room is emptiness and silence, a white light, a white, freshly primed canvas sits easy, comfortable on an easel. Sheaves of pristine white writing paper lie patiently, an unwritten tome on the shelf. Jone, there was always a half hidden hint of defiant pessimism, defiance in your eyes, a pristine sorrow in your gaze, in your tone of voice, even when you laughed, especially when you smiled, that made your beauty so fragile and so perfect. Your white room, white walls and floorboards, whitewashed sash windows, crisp white bed sheets wait for you, my love. I open the white paneled door and stand on the threshold staring out into the void, but you, my dear, will never come again.”
“Alba, you must be really, really sure of yourself before you touch such perfect, virgin places and I was never up to it, ever. It was best, by far, to have left them all alone. I could do no better than that. You told me that I was beautiful, that I was Beauty, that the universe was full of beautiful things, and that I was one of those beautiful things. Thank you my dear. Thank you so much. I could have hoped for no more than that, so shed no tears for who I was, my love, and cry only for the better girl I could have been.”
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