I didn't expect to, but I miss Chaillot a bit. I think I momentarily tricked myself into believing it was real. I often attempt to conjure a young Aurelia and I watch her walking with Bertaut with the light in her hair. I feel a bit melancholy. Whoever she represents, whoever she happened to be, I hope I did her some justice. Though there could not be a more silken, gentle creature, something about her rubbed across my heart and left it raw. I still feel a bit choked.
And melodramatic, as a side note.
I've buried myself in Chekhov, Stoppard, Beckett, Sartre, and...anyone else I can find.